Page 144 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

---

I feel her body tightening, the first tremors of her climax beginning to gather.

I want to draw this out.

I want to make her scream.

I pull my mouth away, my fingers still working inside her.

Her eyes fly open, dazed and pleading. “Don’t stop…”

“I’m not done with you,” I rasp.

My eyes scan the counter.

The butter.

The jar of honey.

A bowl of ripe, dark cherries.

I reach for the butter first.

I take a small, cool pat of it and, my eyes locked on hers, I slowly smear it over her inner thighs, the pale yellow stark against her skin.

I lean in and lick it off, my tongue rough and hot, cleaning a path up one thigh, then the other.

She shudders, a low moan rumbling in her chest.

The taste of her, salt and musk, mingles with the rich, creamy fat.

It’s depraved. It’s perfect.

Next, the honey.

I unscrew the lid, dip two fingers into the thick, golden sweetness.

I drizzle it slowly, deliberately, over her breasts, watching it slide in sticky rivulets over her nipples, down the curve of her stomach.

I follow the trail with my mouth, licking and sucking, cleaning every drop.

I suck a nipple into my mouth, the honey making the seal perfect, the pull exquisite.

She arches her back, a sharp cry tearing from her throat.

“You taste like dessert,” I growl against her skin.

I reach for the cherries.

I pluck one from the stem, its skin taut and dark. I hold it before her lips. “Open.”

She does, and I place the cherry on her tongue.

She closes her mouth, chewing slowly, her eyes never leaving mine.

I take another, but this one I don’t give to her.

I bring it to her sex, rolling the cool, smooth fruit over her swollen, sensitive clit.

She jolts, a gasp catching in her throat.

---