Page 37 of Broken Mafia Prince
I’ve already wasted too much time in this godforsaken city. Vegas, with its gaudy lights and swarms of tourists dressed like fools, has never held much charm for me. The city reeks of desperation, and I’ve spent enough time here for one lifetime.
It’s just as seedy, corrupt, and sickening as the underbelly of Chicago, and you know what they say about the devil you know—it’s better than the one you don’t.
I settle into one of the cream-colored leather seats at the very back of the plane, stretching my legs out in front of me. My blood is thrumming with something I can’t put my finger on. It’s been the same way for over a week now, this curling anticipation inside me that just won’t go away.
I thought that coming out here and getting my hands bloody would be the solution, but here I still am, tension pulsing through me like poison in my bloodstream.
“Champagne?” The voice pulls me from my thoughts. It’s husky, deliberate. I glance up to see a tall, leggy blonde hovering by my seat, her smile as polished as her appearance. She’s dressed in a sleek flight attendant uniform, but she carries herself like she belongs onstage at one of the clubs on the Strip. She knows her effect too; the coy curve of her lips gives it away.
“No,” I reply curtly.
“Whiskey?” she tries again, leaning forward until her cleavage practically grazes my face. “You look like a whiskey man.”
My gaze drops, not because I’m interested, but because I know she expects it. “Wrong guess.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m sure I could do better if you gave me time.”
“Not interested.” My tone should’ve been enough to send her packing, but she only pouts, undeterred.
“Not even in a little… preflight snack?” Her voice is low, suggestive. “A big, strong man like you must have a big appetite. Am I right?”
This time, I let my eyes roam over her—not just her cleavage but the rest of her, too. She’s pretty in that generic, surgically enhanced way: a tight waist, impossibly long legs, and all the right curves in all the right places. A perfect Barbie doll. Still, there’s no spark. I try to recall the last time I had a woman who left me feeling anything other than bored, and it feels like a lifetime ago.
“Seems you are so eager to please me, I see,” I drawl.
Her smile widens as she drops to her knees without hesitation, staring up at me with eager eyes. Her tongue peeks out one side of her mouth and she drags it over her lips in a move that’s meant to be sexy, but only succeeds in pissing me off.
I smirk because I suddenly have the interest to indulge her foolishness a little. “I need a glass of bourbon first.”
Excitement makes her eyes shine, but before she can get up and go get the drink, I click my tongue. “Did I say you could stand up?”
Surprise flashes across her face before it melts into something darker, more eager. She grins, tilting her head just enough to let her hair fall into place. “I’ll go get you that drink, sir.”
She drops to all fours and crawls to the galley, her ass swaying in the tight little red skirt. I wait for her to disappear inside before rising to my feet and following her, that restless energy urging me forward.
I don’t even know if I should call it that. I guess it’s more of seeing just how far she’s willing to take it. I’m in no mood to fuck today.
When I step into the galley, she’s still on her knees, holding the bourbon. I waste no time. My hand fists in her ponytail, yanking her head back sharply. She gasps, a throaty sound that ends in a moan, her neck arching instinctively.
“I’m sure there’s a no-fraternization clause in your contract,” I tell her, my tone even. “You’re not supposed to proposition the guests. And yet, here you are, breaking the rules.”
Her breath hitches when I twist her hair tighter, forcing her to meet my gaze. Desire glimmers in her half-lidded eyes as she murmurs, “Guess I’ve always been bad at following rules.”
I smirk, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. Rules might not matter to her, but they’re the very foundation of men like me—rules of power and control. And right now, I’m in the mood to enforce them.
When I nudge her, she obediently turns around to face me.
“Look at you, all willing and obedient on your knees. I bet you’ll do just about anything I want you to. Good thing I’m in the mood to punish offenders.”
With a sultry smile and eager hands, she reaches for my belt and undoes the heavy buckle, the button and zipper following. My cock jerks when she cups it through the material of my briefs. Grinning like the cat who got the cream, she starts to pull the waistband of my underwear down.
Impatient, I grip her jaw silently and command her to open her mouth. As soon as she does, I stop. I don’t know why.
Most women will complain or try to pull away at the treatment, but the blonde on her knees, her eyes pools of desire shining up at me, just feels off. She is beautiful, no doubt, and it usually doesn’t take this long for me to have them screaming for me, but today I’m just not interested.
Plus, there seems to be a commotion outside the plane, and it is enough to kill this moment. Instinct takes over, and I tense, fastening my pants back up and reaching for the gun tucked intomy waistband. Before I can grab it, the flight attendant places her hand over mine.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she says with an inviting smirk. “Let your men handle it. We have more important business to see to.”
