Page 16 of Masked Don

I push the jacket off his shoulders. Pull his tie free and drop it on the bed. The shirt buttons are small and my fingers clumsy, so I go slow, one at a time, and with every button his scent gets stronger. Pepper and amber and warm skin. I want to bite him.

The shirt falls open.

Oh, God.

Hard chest. Dark hair, threaded with the same silver as his temples. Ink spilling across his skin, old script running over his heart and down his ribs, disappearing below his belt like an invitation. He’s built like a man who’s never needed a gym and has broken things with his hands anyway.

I trace one line of ink with a fingertip. Every muscle under it tightens. A low sound escapes him, and it goes straight to my core.

I reach for his belt, and this time he lets me.

Buckle. Button. Zipper. I push the trousers and the black briefs down his hips together, and he springs free into my hand.

Holy fuck.

He’s thick and heavy and fully hard, flushed dark at the tip, a bead of wetness already gathered there. Bigger than anything I’ve ever had. My mouth actually waters. My thighs press together on their own.

I wrap my fingers around him. Hot. Velvet over steel. He pulses against my palm, and he lets out a slow breath through his teeth, like he’s holding on to something by a thread.

“Careful,” he says. “I’ve been hard for you since the second you walked past my booth. I’d like this to last.”

His hand closes over mine. “Not yet.”

The mask stays on. The lamps stay on. I can see every inch of him except the one thing I want most, and somehow that makes it worse. Or better. I can’t tell anymore.

“Look at me,” he says. Dark eyes through the black mask. “I’ve waited a long time for a woman worth taking my time on. I’m going to take all of it.”

“Give me your wrists.”

I hold them out. He picks up his tie and wraps it around them, once, twice, soft and loose, then guides my hands up and loops the end around the carved bedpost.

“Pull and it comes free,” he murmurs. “So don’t pull.”

I don’t. I stand there with my arms raised, naked under the lamplight, and watch him look at me. Slow, from my mouth to my breasts to my stomach to my thighs, like he’s memorizing me.

“A man my age learns a few things,” he says, his knuckles trailing down my side. “The most important one is patience. You’re about to find out how useful that is.”

He steps in behind me. His mouth finds my shoulder, then the side of my neck, slow and open, stubble scraping just enough to make me shiver. In the gilt mirror across the room I can see all of it: the wolf mask at my throat, his big inked hands sliding up my ribs, my own face flushed and wrecked and wanting.

“Watch,” he says. “I want you to see what you look like when I touch you.”

His palms close over my breasts. Heavy, full, so sensitive that when his thumbs drag across my nipples, I cry out.

“That’s it. Don’t hide that sound from me. I want every one of them.” He rolls them slowly, patiently, until I’m arching back against him and I can feel him, hard and hot, pressed against the small of my back. “Feel that? That’s what you’ve done to me all night.”

“Please.”

“Already?” A low, wicked laugh. “Dolcezza, I’ve barely started.”

One hand slides down over my stomach. He doesn’t skip it. He spreads his palm there and holds it, warm and possessive, his eyes on mine in the mirror.

“Every soft inch of you,” he says. “Mine tonight. Don’t you dare apologize for any of it.”

Then his fingers slip lower and find me soaked.

“Dio.” His voice goes rough. “Look how wet you are for me. Dripping, and I haven’t even had my mouth on you yet.”

He strokes me slowly, deliberately, watching my face in the mirror the whole time. Every time I chase his hand, he stops.