Page 25 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
He kneads once, slow, then harder, his thumbs circling until I arch against him.
He breaks the kiss just enough to watch me.
His eyes are dark, hungry, fixed on my face as I grind down against him.
He bends to my throat, mouth open, tongue and teeth dragging over the pulse that hammers there.
He sucks until the sting blooms and I moan, my fingers fisting in his hair.
“Good girl,” he murmurs into my skin, the words a shiver. “Move on me. Let me feel you.”
I roll my hips, a slow grind that makes him groan, a low sound that vibrates against my collarbone.
His hands slide down to grip my hips and guide me, lifting and pulling until I'm moving exactly how he wants.
Heat coils low in my belly.
The scent of us fills the small room, salt and sweat and something rawer than hunger.
His hands are everywhere now, sure and searching, dragging heat across my skin with every pass.
He pulls my blouse over my head without ceremony, the fabric catching for half a second before it’s gone.
My bra slips off next, fast and practiced, and suddenly, I'm bare above him, chest heaving, skin flushed, his eyes locked on mine like he’s never seen anything he wasn’t willing to survive for.
“Beautiful,” he says, rough and almost reluctant, like the word costs him.
His hands come back to my breasts, fingers splaying wide, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they stiffen under the pressure.
He rolls them between his fingers, watching my face as he does.
My breath catches, my thighs tightening around his hips.
I can’t hide anything from him.
Every tremble, every stuttered breath, every soft, helpless sound, it’s all his now.
He leans in and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue hot and wet, lips sealing around it before he sucks, hard enough to make me cry out.
I grab his shoulders to stay upright, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
He groans at the sound I make, and I feel it everywhere.
In my chest. In my spine. In the wet ache between my legs.
When he switches to the other breast, his teeth graze the peak first, then his tongue soothes the sting, slowly and reverently.
My hips grind down again, unthinking, and this time, he meets me halfway, thrusting up with just enough pressure to send a shock of pleasure through me.
I whimper into the space between us, forehead falling against his.
“You like that,” he says, voice dark velvet against my skin. “The way I use my mouth. You want more?”
I nod, breathless. “Yes. Don’t stop.”
His hands slide under my thighs, lifting me like I weigh nothing, turning us so I’m on my back across the mattress and he’s above me, braced on his elbows.
The shift in weight feels like surrender.
