Page 61 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
“Look at me,” he commanded softly. “Want to see your eyes when I come.”
I raised my gaze to meet his, still working him with my mouth, and something electric passed between us, a powerful connection. His pupils were blown so wide that his eyes looked almost black, only a thin ring of green visible around the edges. The naked hunger in his gaze should have frightened me, but instead, it sent a thrill racing down my spine with dangerous excitement.
“Perfect,” he breathed, the word barely audible. “So fucking perfect.”
The praise, coupled with the intensity of his gaze, made me moan around him again, a sound of pure omega need that would have mortified me if I’d had any dignity left to lose. His hipsjerked upward, pushing his cock deeper into my mouth as his control finally shattered completely.
“Going to come,” he warned, his voice strained. “Pull off if you don’t want?—”
I doubled down instead, taking him as deep as I could, wanting to experience this completely, to taste his release, to know I’d done this to him. With a broken cry that sounded suspiciously like my nickname, Mr. Enigma’s release flooded my mouth—hot, slightly bitter, but not unpleasant, with complex notes. I swallowed reflexively, surprised by my own eagerness to taste him, to take everything he had to offer with unexpected enthusiasm.
When the pulses finally subsided, I pulled back, licking my lips unconsciously. Mr. Enigma stared at me with something like awe, his chest heaving with exertion.
“Holy fuck,” he breathed, his hand coming up to cup my cheek with surprising tenderness. “Are you sure you’ve never done that before? Because that was… that was something else. Absolute perfection, except I would never tell anyone’s mother about this because I’m not a complete degenerate.”
I felt a ridiculous surge of pride at having reduced this powerful alpha to incoherent praise. “Beginner’s luck,” I deflected, though I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. “Or maybe you’re just easy to please. A guaranteed win.”
“Only for you,” he countered, the sincerity in his voice making something twist in my chest with emotional impact. “Only with you.”
I sat back on my heels, absurdly proud of myself despite the circumstances. Bringing a mafia alpha to his knees (metaphorically speaking) with just my mouth was definitely going on my résumé under “special skills.” Right after “can fold fitted sheets” and “survived being kidnapped.”
“How’d I do? Scale of one to ten, ten being ‘life-changing experience’ and one being ‘needs serious practice but A for effort’?”
“Eleven,” Mr. Enigma replied without hesitation, his green eyes dark with residual need. “Especially considering it was your first time. Are you sure you haven’t been secretly practicing on popsicles?”
Before I could come up with a suitably cutting response to that ridiculous question, Mr. Storm shifted position, drawing my attention with subtle movement.
“My turn,” he said simply, his stormy eyes intense with hunger.
I moved to him next, settling between his legs with newfound confidence. His scent enveloped me completely, fresh rain and cedar with dark chocolate undertones that made my head swim with intoxicating effect.
His cock was impressive, to put it mildly. Slightly longer than Mr. Enigma’s, with a more pronounced upward curve that looked anatomically optimized for pleasure. The kind of equipment that would make sex toy designers take notes.
“Same rules apply,” I warned, wrapping my hand around the base. His skin was hot against my palm, radiating heat, and I could feel his pulse hammering beneath the velvet-soft surface. “Constructive feedback only. No laughing or I bite. And not in the fun way alphas apparently enjoy.”
The corner of Mr. Storm’s mouth lifted in what might have been a smile on anyone else but on him looked more like a momentary crack in stone. “Understood,” he replied, his voice rougher than usual. “Though he was right about the teeth.”
“You alphas and your pain kinks,” I said, though the idea sent another thrill through me that I absolutely refused to examine too closely. “Is it an evolutionary thing or just a personalpreference? Did alpha cavemen also enjoy a good nibble while clubbing their mates over the head?”
Instead of answering my perfectly reasonable question about prehistoric sexual preferences, Mr. Storm reached out, his hand cupping my cheek with surprising gentleness, treating me with unexpected care.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, the single word of praise hitting me with emotional impact.
I ducked my head, uncomfortable with the naked admiration in his gaze. This was supposed to be about physical release, about satisfying biological imperatives, not whatever this was becoming, this dangerous intimacy that threatened to crack my carefully constructed defenses with frightening effectiveness.
“Let’s not get carried away with the compliments,” I deflected, my voice shakier than I’d have liked. “I’m just doing what needs to be done. Like taking out the trash or paying taxes, except with more bodily fluids involved.”
Mr. Storm didn’t respond verbally—shocker—but his thumb brushed across my cheekbone in a gesture so tender it made something in my chest ache. Great, now I was developing feelings for the strong, silent type. Next, I’d be writing his name in my diary surrounded by little hearts.
Focusing on the task at hand before I could embarrass myself further, I leaned forward and took him into my mouth. The taste was entirely different from Mr. Enigma’s—fresher, cleaner, with an undertone of earthiness that reminded me of forests after rain. If Mr. Enigma had tasted like a decadent dessert, all spice and warmth, Mr. Storm was the first breath after a thunderstorm—crisp, invigorating, with a hint of danger.
I experimented with different techniques, trying to gauge what worked best for this particular alpha. Unlike Mr. Enigma, who had been extraordinarily vocal, Mr. Storm remained mostly silent, his reactions more subtle—a quickened breath when Iswirled my tongue around the head, a tightening of his jaw when I hollowed my cheeks, a slight tensing of his thighs when I took him deeper. Reading his reactions required careful attention, but each discovered response felt rewarding.
His hand came up to rest on the back of my neck, not pushing or controlling, just maintaining contact. The weight of it was unexpectedly comforting, a grounding presence amid overwhelming sensation. It felt possessive but not domineering, protective but not controlling, a contradiction that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did.
I found a rhythm that seemed to work, a combination of suction and tongue pressure that made his breathing hitch with subtle response. I focused on that, taking him deeper with each bob of my head, my hand working what wouldn’t fit in my mouth in a counterpoint rhythm that had his thighs tensing beneath me with building tension.
From behind me, I heard Mr. Enigma’s appreciative hum. “Look at him taking you,” he murmured, his voice warm with approval. “He was born for this.”
