Page 85 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
Mr. Storm’s rhythm turned erratic, his breathing harsh against my neck as his hips slammed forward one final time with enough force to make the bed frame protest with an ominous creak. I felt his cock pulse inside me, flooding me with his release as a guttural sound rumbled from his chest. Then came the distinctive pressure of his knot beginning to swell, stretching my already sensitive rim to the point where pleasure and pain blended inseparably.
“Fuck—” I gasped, my body instinctively trying to pull away from the intensity.
“Shhh,” he soothed, his hand moving from my throat to stroke my hair, the gentleness of the gesture a stark contrast to the primal claiming of his knot. “I’ve got you. We’ve got you.”
The pressure increased as his knot reached its full size, locking us together in the most intimate way possible. The stretch burned intensely, but beneath the pain lay a profoundsatisfaction that resonated deep in my omega biology. This—being filled, claimed, knotted—was what my body had been craving all along, even when my mind had been fighting against it.
For several heartbeats, we remained frozen in tableau—my body sandwiched between theirs, all of us panting, sweat-dampened and trembling. Mr. Storm’s arms held me secure against his chest while Mr. Iceflare’s forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
A tear slid down my cheek, then another, the emotional overload finally finding physical release. Great. Now I was crying during sex.
“You’re crying,” Mr. Iceflare murmured, his thumb—the same thumb that had probably pressed against a trigger countless times—gently wiping away the moisture with unexpected tenderness.
“It’s just… biology,” I managed, my voice wrecked from screaming. “Hormones and… stuff.”
His smile was soft, transforming his face from dangerous predator to something almost boyish. “Liar,” he said, but the accusation held no heat.
When Mr. Storm’s knot finally subsided enough for him to withdraw, I felt hollowed out—not just physically but emotionally, completely exposed. The sudden emptiness after being so thoroughly filled made me whimper, my body clenching around nothing with desperate need.
Before I could recover any semblance of dignity, Mr. Iceflare was moving me again, arranging me on my back with a casual strength that made my omega hindbrain purr with approval. The mattress dipped as Mr. Enigma and Mr. Storm positioned themselves around us—one at my head, one at my side—creating a fortress of alpha muscle and heat.
Mr. Iceflare’s cock pressed against my entrance, the blunt head noticeably thicker than the others. I had a moment to wonder if I could actually take him after already being so thoroughly used, when he thrust forward in one powerful movement that had my back arching clean off the bed.
“Holy fucking Christ on a pogo stick!” The oath burst from me, my hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into skin that would probably bear my marks tomorrow. The stretch bordered on pain, my body struggling to accommodate his size despite being prepared by the others’ attentions. “Did you somehow get bigger in the last hour? Is your dick affected by the lunar cycle? Should I be concerned about werewolf cock?”
Unlike the others, Mr. Iceflare didn’t start gentle. His hips snapped forward with brutal efficiency, each thrust driving the air from my lungs in sharp gasps. The wet sounds of our joining echoed obscenely in the room, punctuated by the slap of skin against skin and my increasingly desperate moans.
Yet even as his body claimed mine with almost violent intensity, his eyes told a different story. Those ice-blue depths, usually so cold and calculating, now burned with something that looked dangerously close to devotion. He stared into my eyes with such focus, such intent, that I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. It was as if he was trying to imprint himself on my soul even as his body imprinted itself on mine.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a whip-crack of authority that cut through the pleasure-haze clouding my mind. “I want to see your eyes when you come apart for us.”
Us. Not him. Us. The distinction shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. This wasn’t three separate alphas taking turns with me—this was a unified claiming. They weren’t competing; they were sharing. The realization should have terrified me, but instead, it sent a fresh wave of heat pooling in my core.
Mr. Enigma’s hands cradled my face, turning me toward him for a kiss that was shockingly gentle compared to the brutal pounding Mr. Iceflare was delivering. Mr. Storm’s palm settled over my racing heart, his touch grounding me as pleasure threatened to sweep me away completely.
“You’re ours,” Mr. Iceflare growled, his pace never faltering even as sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping onto my chest where it mingled with the evidence of our earlier activities. “Say it, Ty. I need to hear it again.”
The words rose to my lips without hesitation this time, my brain’s Department of Self-Preservation apparently having taken an extended coffee break. “I’m yours,” I gasped, my voice breaking as he hit that perfect spot inside me. “All of yours!”
Something flashed in his eyes—triumph, possessiveness, and something deeper that made my chest ache. His pace became punishing, each thrust driving me up the bed until Mr. Enigma had to brace his arms above my head to keep me from getting a concussion on the headboard.
“Again,” Mr. Storm demanded, his hand pressing harder against my thundering heart.
“Y-yours—” I choked out, my body drawn tight as pleasure coiled tighter in my core. “Yours… Yours! Oh God… Please?—”
I wasn’t even sure what I was begging for anymore—release, mercy, or maybe for them to never stop this exquisite torture. They seemed to understand whatever garbled message my brain was trying to send through my omega Morse code of moans and whimpers. Mr. Iceflare shifted his angle slightly, the new position allowing him to drive even deeper. Mr. Enigma swallowed my increasingly desperate sounds with hungry kisses. Mr. Storm’s hand moved from my heart to my throat, his thumb pressing lightly against my pulse point.
My third orgasm hit without warning, a silent scream tearing from my throat as my body convulsed beneath them. The worldnarrowed to pinpricks of sensation—Mr. Iceflare’s cock pulsing inside me, Mr. Enigma’s lips against mine, Mr. Storm’s hand at my throat. Three points of contact anchoring me as pleasure ripped me apart and reconstructed me into something new.
Mr. Iceflare followed with a growl that sounded more animal than human, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself inside me. Then came the unmistakable pressure of his knot beginning to swell, stretching me beyond what I thought possible. The pain-pleasure of it sent aftershocks racing through my already hypersensitive system.
“Mine,” he snarled, his arms wrapping around me possessively as his knot locked us together. Then, softer, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that made my heart stutter, “Ours.”
The way he looked at me in that moment—like I was something precious, something worth protecting, something worth keeping—broke something loose inside me. More tears escaped, tracking hot paths down my temples and into my hair. Great, I was crying again. I was becoming an emotional sprinkler system.
We remained tangled together, all four of us connected in ways that transcended the physical. Their hands stroked my skin with a gentleness that belied the violence they were capable of, and their lips pressed soft kisses to my tear-streaked face. The contrast was jarring—these dangerous men, these killers, these mafia kings, handling me with incredible care.
As Mr. Iceflare’s knot finally began to subside, I drifted on the edge of consciousness, utterly spent. The magnitude of what had just happened—what I’d just admitted—was starting to sink in, bringing with it a strange mixture of peace and terror. I’d given myself to these men completely, had surrendered not just my body but something deeper, something I’d kept protected my entire life.
