Page 17 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
“This is such a bad idea,” I said, even as I took a hesitant step toward Mr. Iceflare’s bed. “Right up there with skinny-dipping with piranhas.”
His scent grew stronger as I approached, crisp winter pine and bergamot with rich notes of aged whiskey and sandalwood that made my inner omega whimper with need. The combination was intoxicating, somehow both cooling and warming at once, making my skin tingle with awareness. I was acutely aware of the other two alphas watching, their gazes heavy and tangible, their own distinctive scents creating an aromatic backdrop that only heightened my sensitivity.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a silken purr that seemed to caress my skin. “Closer, little mouse.”
When I reached the edge of his bed, he patted the space beside him. “Sit.”
I hesitated, eyeing him warily, all too conscious of how the thin silk robe clung to my sweat-dampened skin, how it gaped slightly at the chest, how it barely covered the essentials. “If this is a trick?—”
“No trick,” he assured me, though the predatory gleam in his eyes did little to calm my nerves. His gaze traveled over me slowly, deliberately, taking in every detail from my flushed face to my trembling hands. “Just a temporary truce. For mutual benefit.”
“Right,” I said skeptically. “And I’m sure you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart. Regular humanitarians, you three. Probably volunteer at omega shelters in your spare time when you’re not, you know, mafia-ing.”
Cautiously, I perched on the edge of his bed, acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, of the alpha scent that enveloped me completely. This close, I could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the tiny flecks of darker blue in his irises, theway his pulse jumped at his throat when I shifted and my scent wafted toward him.
“Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “tell me what you want, omega.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “I want relief.” Before my brain could stop it, my mouth added, “And world peace. And maybe a pony. But I’ll settle for the relief right now.”
His smile was all teeth, the predator showing itself fully. “Be more specific.”
six
. . .
My cheeks burned with humiliation as Mr. Enigma and Mr. Storm watched the exchange with undisguised interest, their own reactions evident in the tenting of their sheets. “You know exactly what I mean. Don’t make me spell it out like I’m ordering off a menu. ‘Yes, I’ll have the orgasm, please. Hold the knot.’”
“I want to hear you say it,” he insisted, his ice-blue eyes holding mine captive. One hand came up, not quite touching me, hovering just above my knee where the robe had fallen open to reveal a sliver of thigh. “I want to hear you ask for it. Properly.”
I bit my lip, torn between pride and desperate need. Another cramp seized me, this one so intense that tears sprang to my eyes, and the decision was made for me. Pride was a luxury I couldn’t afford right now.
“Please,” I whispered, the word torn from somewhere deep inside. “Please touch me.”
“Address me properly,” he commanded softly, his breath warm against my cheek as he leaned closer.
I blinked in confusion. “What?”
“You called me Mr. Iceflare yesterday,” he reminded me, a hint of amusement in his voice as his fingers finally, finally made contact, tracing a featherlight pattern on my exposed knee. “I rather liked it. So formal. So respectful.”
The bastard was enjoying this—my desperation, my humiliation. But I was beyond caring. His touch, even that light brush of fingers against my knee, sent sparks of pleasure racing up my thigh.
“Please touch me, Mr. Iceflare,” I managed, the formal address feeling strangely intimate on my tongue. “Before I spontaneously combust and you have to explain to De Luca why there’s a pile of omega ashes on your bed.”
His smile widened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as they darkened further. The chain attached to his wrist clinked softly as he patted the space beside him. “Better. Now, come closer. I want you on my lap.”
My breath caught. “Your lap?”
“Problem?” he asked, one eyebrow arching in challenge. From the corner of my eye, I could see Mr. Enigma and Mr. Storm watching with rapt attention, their own breathing quickened.
“N-no,” I stammered, heat flooding my cheeks that had nothing to do with my omega biology. “Just wondering if this is going to be a ‘Santa’s lap’ situation or more of a ‘lap dance’ scenario. For clarity’s sake.”
“Then come here,” he said, his voice a command that bypassed all rational thought.
I moved cautiously, allowing him to guide me until I was straddling his lap, the thin sheet and my silk robe the only barriers between us. In this position, I could feel his hardness pressing against me, hot and insistent even through the fabric. The contact sent a jolt of pleasure so intense I gasped, my hands instinctively gripping his shoulders for balance.
“Well, definitely not a Santa situation,” I quipped breathlessly. “Unless Santa’s been working out.”
“Open your robe,” he commanded, his voice rough with restraint.
