Promised to the Killer: A Dark Mafia Romance

I stroke his cock once, twice, and take him deep into my mouth. His grunt turns into a groan and I can’t help the pinging eagerness that spreads between my legs. I love making him happy, love hearing him growl and moan as he loses his mind with lust. If I can control anything in this world, it’s the way he looks at me like I’m the greatest prize imaginable.

I don’t have a lot of experience sucking cock, but he’s been a gracious and patient teacher. For some reason, he’s extremely willing to give me lessons. I’m not sure why, but he seems to enjoy himself. And really, when it comes down to it, what I lack in technique I make up for in enthusiasm.

He gathers my hair in his fist as I slide up and look into his eyes, my tongue rolling around his tip. A little bead of spit slides down his shaft and his eyes burn like he wants to rip me to shreds. But not yet. He’ll get his taste. He’ll get whatever he wants—he always does. I take him deep, let him fuck my throat, and pull back moaning.

God, he loves that. I stroke him fast.

“I would burn this city to the ground to see that look on your face every day for the rest of my life,” he says quietly, his tone husky and intense.

It’s crazy how good that makes me feel. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

His fist tightens and I gasp, head tilted back. “No, princess. There are no other girls.” He smothers my mouth with a kiss and stands me up. He strips me, lovingly kissing every exposed inch of skin, tongue swirling around my nipples, teasing my collarbone, biting my lower lip until I’m bare, dripping wet, and tingling with want.

He pulls me into his lap and I arch my back. His tip is thick and I slide down his shaft, taking him deep inside. I moan, head thrown back, and we move together in perfect rhythm as he kisses me, slaps my ass, and fucks me.

When did this happen?

I’m dimly aware of the thought bubbling up to the surface.

When did we get like this?

When did it become so easy, so normal, to climb into his lap and let him slide inside of me?

When did it feel so good to hear him say that I’m the only one?

I wanted to hate him. I tried so damn hard to despise him. I wanted to resist this—whatever’s happening between us. I though coming here would be just another hell.

Instead, I’m waking up from a long coma and seeing the world for the first time.

How did he do this to me?

I writhe and moan and ride him. Faster, faster, panting, groaning. He grunts as he throws me off like I’m nothing and pins me down, fucking me from behind. I buck against him, wanting him, needing him to fill me, dizzy and stupid and delirious—but he doesn’t let me come. Instead, he spanks me, turns me around, and spreads my legs.

“I want to watch you come,” he whispers as he grinds his cock deep inside. I’m walking the tightrope of bliss and I know I’m ready to explode at any second. “I want to see your pretty face as you come all over my thick cock. Tell me you love it, Siena.”

“I love it,” I whisper, and it’s true.

I love it. I love this. I love—

I moan, chin tilted up. He bites my lower lip hard as his cock thrusts inside of me, making my breasts shake, my back arch, and bliss to rock along my spine like lightning tingles.

Yes, god, yes. He keeps going. He fucks me deep and I’m slick, so wet. We’re moving as one, completely in sync, totally in rhythm. His breath is my breath. His heartbeat is my heartbeat. His pleasure is mine.

His pain is my pain.

I come in a whirlwind. I come moaning his name. He fills me in that moment, and our orgasms mingle, one and the same. It’s exaltation, it’s euphoria. It’s an elation I’ve never felt before in my life.

I blink rapidly as it slowly fades. I see spots in my vision and he’s grinning. We’re both dripping sweat. I bite his shoulder and look at the tattoos all over his skin, and I don’t see the monster that tore me away from The Velvet Rope and put my friends in danger. I don’t see the stranger from that first night so long ago that filled me with sex and lust and fear. I don’t see the bastard I desperately needed to hate—because by hating him, I could make myself think I had some choice in how I felt.

But there’s no choice. There never was one, not since that first night.

I only see Maxim.