THIRTY NIGHTS WITH THE MAFIA BOSS: AN EROTIC ROMANCE

Elena

I bite my lip to suppress the moan, but it escapes anyway.

I’d feel ashamed about making that sound if it weren’t for his thumb already drawing another slow circle along my inner thigh and causing my clit to pulse in response.

His hand is huge. There is a silver ring on one of the fingers, and it shows through the scars on the knuckles, and the heat is warm enough to penetrate my skin and reach the muscle beneath it. With every full movement of his thumb, my hips move towards him even though I have not intended to, and each time they shift I become more conscious of the wetness spreading against the silk beneath me.

I’m going to stain his sheets. I’m going to leave a wet patch on a criminal’s bed linens because he put his hand on my thigh and hasn’t moved it in four minutes. But somehow, that’s enough to make me soak through my underwear like I’ve never been touched before. Although no one has ever made me feel this wet simply by remaining still.

I should be terrified.

Fifteen minutes ago, I was sitting across from this man at his desk and had offered my body as payment for a two-million-dollar debt that my father was unable to pay off. I was literally sold, and my pussy was listed as an item on the balance sheet. Now I am lying on Luca Moretti’s bed in nothing but black cotton underwear.

As I think about my current situation, his hand traces a circle into my thigh. And a part of me screams that I should be horrified and should be thinking about how to get to the elevator, rather than being tightened around nothing as his thumb moves closer to where I need it.

However, he did give me a choice–that’s the part I keep returning to when I compare the sensations in my clit with the one developing low in my stomach. He took me through the guest room–the furnished, white linen living room that looked both beautiful and safe–and then stood by the door of his own bedroom, which was open behind him, and said, ′I’d rather you slept here’ in a tone as though he were handing me a dangerous weapon and was hoping that I wouldn’t pull the trigger.

He waited. He stood there surrounded by dark sheets, with the only light in the background dim, as though he were acknowledging something he wasn’t sure he should, and he waited for me to make my decision.

A man whose livelihood is based on giving orders, who runs the most profitable criminal empire on the eastern seaboard, and who causes people to vanish in ways that go unnoticed by the news–that man waited. He waited for me, a waitress who had borrowed the dress, to decide whether she would sleep on the white sheets or on the dark ones.

I went into his bedroom on my own two feet, sat down on his bed, unzipped my own dress, and now his hand is on the bare part of my thigh with his thumb circling that extremely attractive spot. My underclothes have been soaked ever since he gave me the opportunity to say no, and that is exactly the reason why my body is saying yes.

His cologne has a sandalwood note over a more intense scent which I can sense at the back of my throat each time I take a breath. His jaw is fixed in a manner that suggests patience and certainty, with a stubble that has been deliberately grown, just as everything else about him is intentional. His eyes are so dark that the pupils are no longer visible, and behind them I catch sight of something I wasn’t meant to see – a desire. The kind that fits easily into a man’s life without causing any disruption. Luca Moretti desires me in a way that is costing him. I can tell from the tension in his upper arm, from the way his fingers arc across my skin without squeezing, and from the careful control of a hand that would like to move higher but doesn’t.

My pussy contracts again, so powerfully that I can plainly hear my breath catch, and his eyes go to my mouth, where my lips are open. He detects it. Of course he detects it – this man notices everything, keeps a record of everything, and controls everything right down to the smallest detail. He can see that I’m wet. He might even be able to smell it. Since I removed my bra ten minutes ago without having been asked to, my nipples are pressed firmly against the bare air of the room, but he has still not looked at my breasts at all. Instead, he is looking at my face. Only my face. As though my expression is more important than my body, as if what he really wants isn’t the flesh but the permission.

His thumb stops. In response to the pressure, my hips move, but then I check myself, and the corners of his mouth twitch – not quite a smile. It is at this moment that I realize that we are two people who are good at understanding situations, and at this instant we are looking at each other in the dim light of his bedroom with my arousal going through the silk between us.

He can move his hand. I want him to move his hand so much that my thighs are shaking with the strain of not grabbing his wrist and lifting it. He might slide his fingers under my underclothes to find out exactly how wet I am. He could push me back down onto this bed, spread my legs, and do as he liked since thirty minutes ago I gave him my body and both of us know that I did.

He doesn’t.

His hand remains on my thigh – heavy and warm, the calloused knuckles still in contact with my skin. He is going to wait all night, and I am so certain of this that my cunt starts to throb so violently that my vision blurs.

Because Luca would lie down beside a half-naked woman who was soaking wet for him and stay perfectly still until morning, since he meant exactly what he had said; he would carry out this action for twenty-nine more nights, and on the thirtieth day he would allow me to leave without having touched me because I had never asked for it, and the restraint involved – the absolutely astonishing patience shown by a man who could have taken whatever he wanted but chose to take nothing – is the most erotic thing I have ever experienced.

He turns his head to look at me, and in those dark eyes there is a desire which is being held back by something that appears to be causing him pain to keep it under control.

He finally says, “Ask me,” in such a low voice that I feel it in my chest, then he adds, “I won’t accept anything that isn’t given.”