His Savage Touch: Mafia Alpha’s Mate

REINA

I didn’t get into the shower because I needed to be clean.

I stepped in because I was throbbing. Aching. So wet between my legs it was almost painful.

I needed release—fast, deep, mind-numbing release—and I knew I wasn’t getting it from the man I married. Paolo hadn’t touched me since our wedding night. Not even once.

Two years of cold stares, polite kisses on the forehead, and stiff goodnights.

So fuck him.

The second the hot water hit my skin, I dropped the act. I wasn’t going to waste time pretending to enjoy the steam or the scent of my overpriced vanilla body wash. My fingers were already between my thighs, spreading clit, searching for that one spot that always made me twitch.

I leaned my back against the marble wall of the bathroom, head tilted back, mouth already parting on a sigh. My nipples hardened the second I rolled my palm over one breast, tweaking the peak as the other hand worked lower. My thighs tensed and I moaned quietly, slow and low. I didn’t want to be loud. Not yet.

I tried, as I always did, to imagine Paolo.

To be a good wife.

To pretend he was the one making me feel this way.

I pictured him walking in, seeing me naked and glistening under the spray. Dropping his tie, muttering my name like he couldn’t hold back anymore. That should’ve made my fingers move faster.

But it didn’t.

Never did.

My body knew better.

The second I saw his face in my head, my clit went numb. Like my brain just shut it off. Cold. Unresponsive. Just like him.

"Fuck." I groaned in frustration and shut my eyes tighter.

No. Not him.

That’s not what worked.

It was always someone else.

It was always him.

Domenico.

My father-in-law.

God help me, the only man who ever made me feel wanted.

My fingers picked up pace instantly. My body lit up. The difference was night and fucking day. I imagined him—tall, sharp, super hot, sinfully sexy, terrifying Domenico—standing in the doorway, suit soaked from the spray, hair dripping, jaw clenched as he looked at me like he was going to punish me for even daring to touch myself.

"Fuck! Hmmph!"

I moaned louder, back arching under the water. Toes curling.

His eyes. Cold black orbs that never looked away when I spoke. The way his stare dragged down my body like he could see through my clothes, even when I wore nothing but his son’s name. The way he filled a room; silent, dangerous, commanding.

I squeezed my breast harder. Rubbed faster.

I imagined him pinning me to the glass, not saying a word. Just pulling his belt off slowly while I panted, needy and dripping, trembling for him like a stupid little whore.

Like those sluts he always brought home in his building every night.

I fucking hate them.

Hated those sluts so much.

"Fuck! Don't stop, Daddy!"

My pussy got wetter calling my father-in-law ‘Daddy’ than it ever did saying ‘I do’ to his son.

And the sickest part? I didn’t stop touching myself.

I kept rubbing my filthy little clit with two fingers, moaning “Daddy” into the shower just like I had always done while my husband snored beside me like a useless lump of flesh.

Domenico Gravano—his father, my fucking father-in-law—is the only man who’s ever made my cunt ache just by walking into a room.

I whimpered and bit my lip as my body coiled tighter and tighter.

I imagined his voice behind me, deep and deadly smooth, whispering: “Keep moaning for Daddy, princess. You know you want to. Don't hold back. Let it out for me.”

And I did.

I came hard, gasping into the echo of the shower as my legs buckled and pleasure ripped through me. Something my husband could never do.

My thighs shook. My fingers froze. My mouth opened around a desperate cry that barely made it out—“Daddy…”

My heart raced. My whole body pulsed, and I stayed there, slumped against the tile, water sliding over me like sin.

Just like it had always been since I moved in with my husband, image of Domenico was able to make me cum so hard again. Just like it had always been.

I didn’t care how wrong it was.

I didn’t care that he was Paolo’s father.

He made me feel alive. Even if it was just in my head.

"How long is this going to go on for?" I sniffed, cradling my legs against my chest, my face buried deep in my thighs. "This is not right. Domenico can't know about this."

Shit. Not even Paolo should know about this.

"He would kill me." I sighed into my thighs.

Eventually, the water started to run cold. I shut it off and stepped out slowly, legs still shaky. My skin glowed pink and wet, and I wrapped myself in the soft white towel, not bothering to dry off completely. I didn’t want to.

I caught my reflection in the mirror. My lips were red. My hair damp and tangled. My eyes wild.

I looked like a woman who needed to be fucked. Desperately.

I strod into the bedroom, towel clinging to my hips, and glanced at the clock. Paolo would be home soon. He texted earlier that he’d be back before dinner. I wasn’t going to get dressed. No. I had a better idea.

"You better do the needful today, Paolo, or I swear..." I trailed off with a shaky breath. I swear what? What could I possibly do?

Nothing!

I stripped the towel and let it fall onto the bed.

Then I pulled back the sheets and started fixing the room to look just the right amount of lived-in and inviting. I wanted it to smell like him.

I wanted to imagine what it’d be like if he came in—wet from the rain, his clothes clinging to his body—and actually looked at me like a man starved for his wife.

"Why isn't he even touching me?" I gritted out, yanking at the pillows. "It's not like I'm not beautiful or sexy enough because..." I trailed off with a small smile. "I swear I am. I caught Domenico staring a couple of times."

I remembered him clearing his throat and looking away each time I caught him staring. I would always frown and look away.

Not because I didn't enjoyed him staring at me with hunger in his eyes, I just didn't want him to see right through me that I had been fantasizing over him for two years.

I grabbed one of Paolo shirts from the laundry bin, the ones he never sent to dry cleaning on time. It smelled like him. Faint sweat, cologne, a hint of whiskey.

I brought it to my nose and inhaled, letting my eyes flutter closed. "I really want you to fuck me, Paolo. Why wouldn't you fuck me?"

I tried to imagine Paolo's fingers on my body, touching me everywhere with my nose still buried deep in his shirt. Smelling him.

It didn’t turn me on. Not like Domenico did. But it helped build the fantasy.

I sat on the bed for a moment, nude, thinking. Then I got up and made a decision.

If Paolo wasn’t going to come to me, I’d wait for him where he couldn’t avoid me.

"Where he won't have a chance but notice just how even more sexy I could be with nothing on." I grinned to myself.

I walked out of our bedroom, and into the living room, towel in hand, body still glistening. I didn’t wrap it around myself this time. I threw it onto the couch, then sat down right in front of the door—legs spread wide open, chest bare, hair still wet.

It was still raining. I could hear it tapping against the windows. Everything outside looked dim and heavy and slow.

But inside me?

I was on fire.

My nipples were stiff from the cool air. My thighs were still sticky with the memory of what I’d done in the shower. I didn’t care. I wanted Paolo to walk in and see me like this. I wanted to shock him. Force a reaction.

Would he say something? Would he stare? Would he finally pick me up, throw me over his shoulder and carry me upstairs and throw down on the bed and finally do something he should have done since the night of our wedding?

I could already hear his car driving in.

My heart beating crazily against my chest.

I leaned back on the couch, resting one arm over the cushion, the other draped casually between my legs, like I didn’t care if he saw me naked.

I was done waiting.

The doorknob turned.

I smiled to myself.

Good.

It's finally happening.

Let him come in and see what he’s been missing.

The door opened.

I sat up straighter, chest rising, heart fluttering in my throat.

But the second my eyes landed on the man in the doorway, my stomach twisted—and not with disappointment.

With something else. Something hotter.

Because it wasn’t Paolo. It was Domenico. His father.

My father-in-law stepped inside, slamming the door shut behind him. He was soaked. Rain dripped from his coat, his black button-down clung to his rock hard chest like a second skin, and his jaw was locked tight with tension.

He looked furious.

And he was staring right at me.

My breath caught.

I was naked.

Fully, completely exposed.

And his eyes weren’t moving.