บททั้งหมดของ THE MAFIA'S FATAL ATTRACTION BOOK 2: A PRINCESS'S CHALLENGES: บทที่ 41 - บทที่ 50

TaraThe sun is now high, flooding the room with harsh light. It outlines the muscles of his back, sculpts his body in shadow and clarity. Mike is dressing, his movements economical and precise. The scene on the balcony is still between us, a silent specter. His words still resonate in my head – a bloody, eternal pact. This isn't love. It's something wilder, more primitive. And yet, my heart, that traitor, demands confirmation, a tender word in this chaos.I remain sitting on the bed, the sheets wrapped around me like a flimsy armor. I watch him buckle his watch, the gesture of a man who masters his world. A man who masters me. The question burns my lips, stupid, dangerous, necessary.— Mike?He turns, an eyebrow raised. His gaze is calm, intense. Too calm.— Do you love me?The question seems suspended in the air, naive and heavy with consequences. A silence falls, thick as tar. Then, he laughs. It's not a laugh of joy or tenderness. It's a short, cynical laugh, seeming to tear itsel

TaraHis kiss is not a request, it's a declaration of war. A war I provoked myself. His lips seize mine with a savage hunger, and I respond with equal fervor, my fingers sinking into his hair to pull him even closer. The whisky glass falls from his hand and shatters on the floor in crystal shards, but the sound is muffled by the buzzing in my ears, by the frantic beating of my heart.He suddenly lifts me, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His hands, under my bare thighs, are brands of fire. He doesn't carry me to the bedroom, no. He pushes me against the cold wall of the hallway, the impact stealing my breath. The icy marble contrasts violently with the burning heat of his skin through the silk of my outfit.— You want my soul? he snarls against my mouth, his teeth grazing my lower lip. Then come get it.His hands tear the fine silk ties at my hips. The fabric gives way with a sharp, satisfying sound. The bodysuit, my armor of s

MikeThe silence is not a void, but a living thing, thick as the sweat still clinging to our skins. The air, heavy and charged, carries the musky odor of our bodies, that mix of salt, dried semen, and that milky sweetness that escapes her every time I make her come. She is still on me, her trembling thighs clasping my hips, her warm breath against my neck. I haven't pulled out. Not yet. As if I fear the world will collapse if our bodies separate.My fingers, numb from effort, sink into the firm flesh of her buttocks, where my nails have left pink marks, almost purplish. She is heavy against me, a delicious weight anchoring me to reality while my mind still floats somewhere between ecstasy and exhaustion. Each pulse of my sex inside her tears a shiver from me, residual waves that make her intimate muscles tremble. I can feel her heart beating against mine, a disordered rhythm, as if our two bodies are no more than one.The light of dawn filters through the

MikeThe sun climbs, burning away the pallor of dawn, transforming the bedroom into a furnace where our streaming bodies become weapons. She is above me, a silhouette carved in gold and amber, her hips rolling with diabolical slowness. Every movement is a promise and a torture. I am completely open, vulnerable, buried inside her, and yet, it is she who possesses me."You are mine, Mike."Her voice is just a hoarse breath, but the words resonate within me like a decree. Her hands, strong and authoritative, close around my wrists and pin them above my head against the damp pillow. I am caught. Immobilized. I could struggle, but I do not want to. I no longer want to. A moan escapes my lips, a weak, broken sound that makes her smile. That smile of angel and demon.She quickens the pace, her descents becoming more powerful, deeper. I feel every inch of her tight sex around mine, every intimate muscle that contracts to embrace me, suck me, empty me. My head tilts back, my eyes roll back. Th

TaraThe dining room of the private apartments is flooded with light, but the atmosphere is leaden. Around the polished mahogany table, five women are seated. They did not shake hands. A nod, a quick glance, that is all. The perfume—an oppressive blend of expensive flowers and something more acrid—fear, perhaps, or the habit of danger—floats in the still air.I am at the head of the table. The place of the mistress of the house. The new wife."Thank you for coming," I begin, my voice calmer than I feel.My fingers graze the rim of my teacup, a gesture to anchor myself. They scrutinize me. Sofia, Marco's wife, Mike's right-hand man. Madonna face, ice eyes. Anna, tied to the old guard, a sideways, wary glance. The three others, names, faces I have memorized, each a piece of the puzzle I must solve."I am new here. In this city. In… this life," I continue, choosing my words with the precision of a bomb disposal expert. "My husband has his responsibilities. I would like to understand mine