Page 146 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
I feel my own climax building, a tight, coiling pressure in my groin.
I’m close, so close.
I reach between our bodies, my thumb finding her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles.
“Come with me,” I command, my voice breaking. “Now, Elisa. Come for me.”
The dual sensation of my cock pounding into her and my thumb on her oversensitive clit is too much.
Her eyes roll back, her mouth opens in a silent scream, and then her second orgasm rips through her, even more violent than the first.
Her body seizes, her inner muscles milking my cock in a series of frantic, irresistible spasms.
That’s my undoing.
With a guttural roar, I bury myself to the hilt and let go.
My release erupts, hot and endless, pulsing deep inside her, claiming her, filling her.
I shudder through it, my body slumping over hers, my forehead pressed to her sweat-slicked shoulder.
We stay like that for a long time, panting, tangled together on the kitchen counter.
The world has narrowed to this room, to the smell of sex and honey and coffee, to the feel of her heart hammering against mine.
Slowly, carefully, I pull out and lift her into my arms.
Her head lolls against my shoulder, her body limp.
I carry her to the kitchen table and sit, cradling her in my lap.
I look around the wreckage of my kitchen—the smeared butter, the overturned honey jar, the scattered cherry pits, the two of us, sticky and spent.
It’s a chaos I have never allowed in my life.
It’s a mess. It’s perfect.
She stirs in my arms, nuzzling my neck. “We made a mess.”
“I’ll clean it up later,” I murmur into her hair, my arms tightening around her.
The pale, sullen sky is beginning to brighten.
The day is here.
And for the first time in my life, I’m not looking for an exit.
I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
26
NICO
Awhile later, I make fresh coffee for the both of us.
The notebook from yesterday sits open to the nervous system we drew between bites of toast.
Arrows, names, totals.
