Page 143 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
I find she’s wearing nothing underneath.
A slow, predatory smile spreads across my face. “Skipped a step, didn’t you?”
A blush creeps up her neck. “I was hungry.”
“So am I.” My voice drops to a low growl.
I lift her, setting her on the edge of the granite countertop.
The butter dish clatters.
She lets out a small gasp, her hands coming to rest on my shoulders.
I step between her spread knees, the thin cotton of my sweatpants the only barrier between my hardening cock and her heat.
I finally kiss her.
It’s not the frantic, desperate clash of last night.
This is slow, deep, claiming.
I taste the coffee on her tongue, the faint sweetness of the butter.
My hands slide up her thighs, pushing the t-shirt higher, baring her to the waist.
The cool air makes her nipples pebble into tight, dark peaks.
I break the kiss, my mouth trailing down her neck, over her collarbone, lower.
I take one breast into my mouth, sucking deeply, my tongue circling the taut nipple.
She moans, her head falling back, her fingers tangling in my hair.
I lavish attention on one, then the other, biting gently, laving the sting away, until she’s writhing against me, little mewling sounds escaping her lips.
My mouth continues its journey south, over the quivering plane of her stomach.
I drop to my knees on the cool tile, my hands pushing her thighs wider apart.
She is open, glistening, the scent of her arousal, pure and musky, cutting through the smell of coffee and lemon.
Beautiful. Mine.
I don’t tease. I dive in.
My tongue finds her clit and I feast.
I lap at her like a man starved, broad, flat strokes that make her cry out, her hands flying to the counter’s edge for support.
The wet, filthy sounds are a stark contrast to the quiet morning.
I slide two fingers inside her, curling them, finding that perfect, rough spot.
She gasps, her hips bucking off the counter.
“Nico… oh, God…”
I fuck her with my fingers, my mouth never leaving her, sucking her clit, flicking it with the tip of my tongue.
