Page 72 of Dark Mafia Heir

I feel the slick heat between us, the tightness of her body, her tight walls squeezing me in, the way she arches into me. I groan into her neck, thrusting deeper,harder.

Her eyes are half-closed, lashes wet from her tears, and when they open, I catch a glimpse of that unspoken affirmation in the way she watches me.

She’s holding nothing back.

And I don’t either.

Her lips part, her toes curl behind me, and she convulses beneath me when her orgasm wracks through her, leaving her spent before I’m done.

I ride her through it, through the rising swell of ecstasy, through the spiral of pleasure that pulls us both under.

I don’t want to stop. I want to hold onto this longer, maybe fore?—

The coil bursts from within me like a snapped string, and I surrender myself into that wild, desperate release that leaves me breathless, trembling, and truly vulnerable for the first time in a long while.

I collapse on her, and she hugs me close; our breathing is ragged, and we stay like that. Again, we don’t say anything. But I know we don’t have to.

In the heat of passion, we’d said it already.

Neither one of us was sure we were ready to let go.

25

Vivienne

“Nope.”

Lifting a bowl of raisins and oats to my nose, my stomach churns in response, and I nearly gag. I shake my head and push it away. “Nope.”

The young maid, with short dark hair, blue eyes, and oversized grey shirt, sighs, and her eyes bulge when she realizes it is loud enough for the entire room to hear. Offering her an apologetic smile, I shift the large tray with six different meals towards her.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but everything is making me nauseous. Could be something I ate, maybe?”

Varya’s cheeks glow a bright shade of red, and she ducks her head while retrieving the platters. “Oh, ma’am, please don’t apologize. You have every right to select your preferred choice of breakfast. It’s just. . .”

She trails off, chewing the insides of her cheeks while staring regrettably at the apple pie I persuaded her to bake. Varyadoesn’t have to say more; I know the exact thought that crosses her mind, because it crosses mine too.

I cross my legs on the high stool, leaning forward on the kitchen island with one elbow propped up and one hand under my chin.

Varya and I had gone through a long list of things I could have for breakfast and still, I’d chosen nothing. The pancakes, waffles, beef stew, apple pie—they looked delicious but suddenly developed a strange disturbing aroma that made me feel queasy.

Varya doesn’t have an idea of what could be wrong; I don’t either. In addition to this mystery, my body temperature rises and falls at will. It goes from hot to cold and reverts.

I rub the crease between my brows. This phenomenon had been an occurrence for a couple of weeks, and I let it slip by at first, not thinking much of the nagging exhaustion or the twists in my stomach. I always chalked it up to stress, maybe something I ate; the unease lingered.

“Ma’am, it can’t be something you ate, because you haven’t exactly eaten properly these past few days. The only reason I haven’t informed Agatha, who would definitely inform the master, is because you’ve asked me not to.”

The only reason I made that request was to purposefully keep Antonio from finding out and having to worry. He is away on business, and I don’t intend to cause anymore distractions without unimportant domestic issues, than he already has to handle.

I know Antonio; he definitely would go apeshit on somebody.

No.I don’t want any innocent person’s blood on my conscience.

“It might be a stomach bug,” I say to the retreating back of Varya, who starts to put all the untouched meals in plastic containers.

Her chuckle is very light and girly. “I am not a nurse, ma’am. Honestly, I wouldn’t know. It might or might not be a stomach bug.” Her hands hover above the apple pie, hesitating to pick it up and store it someplace else.

“Take it.”

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