Page 32 of Seduced By the Mafia Don

"I want to believe you," she moans, gasping between fervent kisses.

"I've already told you. I've said enough."

I kiss her lips, then her cheek, then her neck. She surrenders, tilting her head to provide better access for my kisses. Though not an artist, desire guides my actions. I kiss, then gently bite her neck, sliding my hand higher along her thigh.

"Not here," she whimpers.

"But somewhere," I groan.

"Just take me home."

"Why don’t you try saying that without moaning?"

"T-take me..."

She moans when I kiss down her neck, gliding my hand toward her enticing sex. Only the possibility of someone watching us deters me. Despite tinted windows, this is still reckless.

"Please." She adjusts her shirt. "I want to go home now."

"Okay. Let's go. Punch your address into the GPS." I pull away, winking. "And tough luck."

"Tough luck?" she retorts. "I kicked your ass."

"But failed to beat my record."

She laughs. "There's still time."

"No, there isn't. One night, remember?"

"Says the man who dropped a bombshell, then refused to elaborate."

"I can't."

"You're a mob boss. You maintain a facade. You weren't involved, but maybe you can identify who was. Stop me when I get something wrong."

I grind my teeth again. Discussing Family matters with outsiders violates my every instinct.

"I... strive for improvement," I growl. "But that's enough."

"You're not the Don ofme, Nico."

One hand on the wheel, I return the other to her leg. "Tell that to the sound you just made," I groan. "That exquisite moan, suggesting you yearn to belong to me, despite knowing you shouldn't."

She gasps as I ascend her leg. A moment of hesitation passes, her muscles tensing, before she sighs and relaxes. She's offering herself, perhaps because she believes me or simply can’t resist.

I press my palm against her crotch, feeling her warmth through the fabric. She gasps and shifts her hips, her moans like strokes of desire against my rigid arousal. Desire seeps from me as I intensify my ministrations.

"Tell me I'm not in control now,piccola pittrice."

"You're... not..." She gasps, synchronizing her movements with my hand's rhythm, seemingly involuntarily. I struggle to maintain focus on the road. This is reckless—not merely because of traffic, but because of us. How can I experience her perfect, responsive body, then forget her?

I need to keep this casual.One night.

She grips my wrist. Initially, I think she’s going to push me away. We're driving down a quiet street, but she's still trying to be subtle. Her body trembles as her climax approaches. She subtly adjusts my hand, and I respond with increased fervor.

Her moans transform into gasps, as if oxygen eludes her. She turns aside, biting her shirt collar to suppress a scream. I continue relentlessly, only withdrawing when we run into traffic.

"That was... unexpected," she murmurs.

---