Keeping my Mafia Husband
I want so much it hurts.
“I… I want it,” I whisper thickly. His eyes flick open in the mirror.
“You want it?” he says against my skin, as if he can’t bear to stop kissing, can’t bear to lose my taste. “What do you want, Zayka?”
I could have said your cock, that I want him to pound into me, filthy and shameless. All true. All correct. But my brain was singing a different tune, maybe it was my heart.
“I want everything,” I say instead, turning to meet his gaze. Those brown eyes, usually so dark they look black, are molten under the store’s lights. “I want all of you.”