Page 80 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
His breathing hitches, turning into ragged pants. "God… your mouth…"
I pull off with a soft, wet pop.
A string of saliva connects my lips to his glistening skin for a second before breaking.
"You like that?" I ask, my voice dripping with false innocence.
I don't wait for an answer.
I lick a long, slow stripe from the base all the way back to the tip, my eyes rolling back a little at the sheer, primal taste of him.
He can only manage a strangled, "Yeah."
My hand wraps around the base of his shaft, pumping slowly in time with the shallow bobs of my head.
I take him deeper, inch by agonizing inch, letting my throat relax.
My nose brushes the coarse hair at his root.
I hold him there for a moment, feeling him pulse against my tongue, listening to the guttural, broken sounds tearing from his chest.
"Fuck… Elisa, I can't…"
I pull back, gasping for air, a line of spit trailing from my chin.
"You can," I breathe, my own desire making me dizzy. "You're going to take everything I give you."
I dive back down, faster this time, my head bobbing in a more determined rhythm.
The world narrows to the salty-sweet taste of him, the feel of his velvety skin sliding over my tongue, the sounds—the wet, slick sounds of my mouth working him over, his choked-off moans, the creak of the couch as his body tenses.
My free hand wanders, cupping and gently squeezing his heavy balls, rolling them in my palm.
He cries out, a sharp, shattered sound. "Oh, God, right there, don't stop!"
I double my efforts, my jaw aching in the sweetest way.
I look up at him through my lashes.
His head is thrown back, tendons standing out in his neck, his mouth slack. He is a masterpiece of unraveling control.
I hollow my cheeks, sucking hard as I drag my mouth up, then plunge down, taking him all the way to the hilt again.
My throat opens, accepting him, and the guttural, choking sound I make seems to push him right to the edge.
“If you do any more?—”
And right there, I stop and pop his cock out of my mouth.
My eyes locked on his, I push myself up, my knees sinking into the soft cushions on either side of his hips.
My fingers find the waistband of my panties, the lace damp and clinging.
I hook my thumbs into the sides and, with a slow roll of my hips, I peel them down my thighs and let the scrap of fabric fall to the floor.
His eyes darken, the haze clearing to be replaced by a raw focus.
I rise up on my knees, positioning myself over him.
