Page 82 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
“We know what you need,” Mr. Iceflare murmured against my neck, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through my already overstimulated body. “Trust us.”
Trust. Such a simple word for such a monumental concept. But in that moment, with pleasure fogging my brain and their scents surrounding me intensely, I found myself doing exactly that, trusting these dangerous men with my body, my pleasure, and perhaps most terrifyingly, my heart.
Mr. Storm’s hand finally, finally moved higher, fingers brushing against where I was already wet. The first touch against my aching flesh had me bucking, a sound escaping my throat that I would definitely deny making later.
“So responsive,” he said, his normally taciturn manner giving way to something almost reverent as he explored me with careful fingers. “So ready for us.”
“It’s just biology,” I gasped, clinging to denial. “Omega response to alpha stimuli. Basic hormonal reaction. Nothing personal.”
Mr. Enigma’s laugh was warm against my chest as he switched to my other nipple, giving it the same thorough attention. “Keep telling yourself that, little mouse,” he murmured between licks and gentle bites. “Maybe you’ll eventually believe it.”
Mr. Storm slid down the bed, positioning himself between my spread legs. The sight of him there, his powerful shoulders spreading my thighs wider, his eyes dark with hunger as he looked up at me, was possibly the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.
“What are you—” I started, then lost all capacity for speech as his mouth descended on my cock, swallowing me to the root in one smooth movement. “FUCK!”
My back arched sharply, only Mr. Iceflare’s strong arm around my waist keeping me from flying off the bed entirely. The sensation of Mr. Storm’s mouth on me—hot, wet, impossibly tight—had my brain short-circuiting.
His technique was methodical yet devastating. He started with long, slow pulls from base to tip, his tongue tracing the sensitive underside with each upward stroke. Then he focused on the head, his tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge before dipping into the slit to taste the pre-cum gathering there. The combination of suction and tongue pressure was perfectly calibrated to drive me insane, with precise effectiveness.
“Look at him,” Mr. Iceflare commanded softly, his free hand coming up to turn my face toward where Mr. Storm was devouring my cock with intense focus. “See how much he wants you. How much we all do.”
The visual combined with the physical sensation was almost too much to bear. Mr. Storm’s usually stoic expression was transformed by hunger, his eyes half-closed in apparent bliss as he took me deeper with each bob of his head. One of his hands cupped my balls, rolling them gently between his fingers while the other reached farther back, a finger circling my entrance without yet pushing inside.
Meanwhile, Mr. Enigma continued his assault on my chest, moving up to capture my mouth in a kiss that swallowed my increasingly desperate sounds. The combination—Mr. Iceflare at my neck, Mr. Enigma at my mouth, Mr. Storm between my legs—was overwhelming in the best possible way, complete worship from all sides.
Mr. Storm’s finger finally, finally breached me, sliding into me with minimal resistance. The dual sensation—his mouth on my cock, his finger inside me—had me seeing stars, pleasure building with each perfectly coordinated movement.
“I can’t—” I gasped against Mr. Enigma’s lips, my body tensing as pleasure built to almost unbearable heights. “I’m going to?—”
“Let go,” Mr. Iceflare murmured against my scent gland, his voice a command I couldn’t disobey if I tried. “Come for us, little mouse. Show us how beautiful you are when you fall apart.”
As if my body had just been waiting for permission, my orgasm crashed through me with overwhelming force, obliterating conscious thought and reducing me to pure sensation. I cried out, the sound swallowed by Mr. Enigma’s hungry mouth as my cock pulsed in Mr. Storm’s, pumping stream after stream of cum down his willing throat. My body convulsed between them, pleasure radiating outward in waves that seemed to go on forever.
Mr. Storm didn’t let up, swallowing around me through my climax, his finger still working inside me, finding that spot that made stars explode behind my eyelids. The continued stimulation drew out my orgasm until it bordered on too much, pleasure edging into the territory of sweet pain.
Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, not from discomfort but from the sheer overwhelming intensity of the experience, the emotional and physical sensations too much for my overloaded system to process.
When I finally came down, trembling and gasping between them, I found all three alphas watching me with expressions that made my chest ache in ways I couldn’t blame on physical exertion. There was hunger there, yes, but also something deeper, more profound, something that looked dangerously close to adoration.
“That was just the beginning,” Mr. Enigma promised, his voice rough with desire as he brushed a tear from my cheek with gentle fingers. “We’re going to worship every inch of you tonight, little mouse.”
“I don’t think I’ll survive,” I admitted, my usual snark temporarily short-circuited by the most intense orgasm of my life. “You’ve killed me. I’m dead. This is my ghost talking.”
Mr. Iceflare’s laugh rumbled through his chest and into my back where I was still pressed against him. “You’ll survive,” he assured me, his hands stroking down my sides in soothing patterns. “And you’ll thrive. With us.”
The promise in those simple words sent a fresh wave of both longing and terror through me. Because part of me—a growing, increasingly vocal part—wanted exactly that. Wanted to be with them, to belong to them, to build something real from this strange, intense connection that had formed in the most unlikely circumstances.
twenty
. . .
“Stop thinking so hard,” Mr. Enigma murmured, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. “I can practically hear the gears grinding in your head.”
“Someone has to think,” I shot back, though my breathless voice probably undermined any attempt at sounding unaffected. “Since you three are operating on alpha instincts and the decision-making skills of hormonal teenagers at a keg party.”
Mr. Iceflare’s laugh rumbled against my back, the vibration sending a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with my omega biology’s complete betrayal of my dignity. “There’s our little mouse,” he said, his voice warm with something that definitely wasn’t just amusement. “Always ready with a verbal shiv.”
“It’s a survival skill,” I admitted before I could stop myself. “Like playing dead for possums or having ridiculous eyestalks for hammerhead sharks. Except mine involves more syllables and fewer evolutionary advantages.”
