Mafia's Obsession [18+]

39.

Ezio

I'd like to think she's a punishment sent to me seeing how much of trouble she becomes. In every sense.

She's bold, unwavering as she's facing me. Her confidence purrs, as though certain I'm the one who will shatter soon. I don't even dare to deny the possibility. I'm enslaved to her command. She'd be scared to know the extent of my devotion.

So, as I said, we'll be playing her game. I partly want to test myself whether or not I'm capable of restraining the urge to fuck her senseless in every surface of this bathroom. Probably not, as she's covered in this short silky nightgown. Teasing me with that seductive smirk.

She's planning hell to me, I can fucking smell it.

I wait. The anticipation is killing me, but I know she intentionally bides her time. She knows the impatience roars in my head, the dominance wanting to break free. But it's been merely minutes since I utter my submission.

I hate myself.

The second I'm about to give a smart reply, she tugs down my towel, letting it fall around our feet. I watch her eyes skimming down my body. And yeah, I probably flex a little under her assessment. Can't help it. Her appreciative stare feeds my ego, filled with a desire that completely matches mine.

Those beautiful eyes stop at my right side, just below my ribs, then her hand—the one that's not around my neck—follows the movement. Brushing over that sleek snake tattoo wrapped in delicate flowers.

"This is new." She concludes. Her touch makes me shiver in a way I crave it even more.

"It's not." I murmur. Actually, I got it weeks ago when she was kidnapped by that fucker and I needed something to numb the feeling. The feeling of losing her. Missing her.

She drags her fingers lower, over my waist around the same area. "This is also new." She says, tracing the simple Arabic word twice.

"It's not." To be honest, I might spend that day wallowing in self-pity and get multiple tattoos devoted to her.

"What language is it?" she asks, curiosity over her features.

"Arabic."

"What does it say?"

"Sofia." I candidly reply. Because what's the use of lying? I'm proud wearing her name on my skin. And she already knows how fucking whipped I am.

She indeed doesn't look surprised, just throwing me a wicked grin. I want to crush it with a kiss. "What does the snake represent?"

"Me." I say flatly.

"And the flowers?"

"You."

Fiori means flower. I couldn't think of a better representation of her. I turn into a boring man, I know.

She trails her fingers down over my pectorals, then confidently, wrap her hand around my dick. Moving up and down, making me ache for more.

I inhale sharply. She's planning my death with these achingly slow strokes.

"Does my happiness matter to you?" she asks quietly I almost didn't catch it.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Didn't I say that I love you?" I frown, hardly focusing on everything that happens all at once. The feeling of her hand, that solid grip. Her hardened nipples brushing ever so slightly against my chest. This deep, serious talk...

"Did you mean it?"

"You're seriously asking me that?" I scowl, not even faking my irritation at that absurd question.