Dirty Mafia Sinner (Dirty Mafia Kingdom #2)

Excerpt

ALESSIA

I raise my key to the door.

“Spread your legs.”

The man’s sharp order stops me short. My key tumbles to the carpet as my grip slips on the bucket, though I catch it before it falls. Ice cubes clatter as silence descends over the room across from mine. Did I imagine it? The whiskey-toned timbre intertwining with each word, the sinful seduction sharpening the edges? Is heatstroke wreaking havoc on my mind?

Breathlessly, I wait, until a woman groans.

The door is half-open. Anyone could hear them.

Swallowing hard, I crouch to scoop up my room key.

His voice rolls over me once more, a hushed, indecipherable rumble. Warmth doesn’t just fill me, it sets me on fire. I wobble on my heels, my position awkward; the wicked depravity within the man’s dirty promises exhilarating.

I place an unsteady hand on the carpet and strain my ears.

“Chiudi gli occhi e piegati.” His cold tone cuts through ice. Close your eyes and bend over.

My lower lip actually trembles.

Oh Lord. This is a test, right? Not divine intervention but a force pulling me in another direction, toward hellish temptation.

“Stay out of trouble tonight, Sissy.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and ignore the impulse to do something I really, really shouldn’t do.

“Facciamo un gioco?”

Want to play a game?

Yes . Please .

Crippling shyness will disarm the most courageous women. Forcing you to retreat from danger and sheltering you from less sensitive people. Protection from advantage-seeking bullies. Safety, with sacrifice. It doesn’t mean you’re cowardly or lack gumption. It doesn’t mean you resist being drawn to the occasional guilty pleasure.

Do it, Sissy. Live a little.

I’m compelled toward their room, and although I can recite one hundred and one reasons why this is a bad idea, I ignore each and every one of them. Ever so carefully, I peer around the door. Then blink, and blink again.

Oh. Sweet. Lord.

Not one. Not two. But three women are bent over a massage table. On their toes, maid uniforms raised to their waists, and bare bottoms lined up and presented to a tall man in a suit. His broad back is to me, so my attention shifts to the women; a brunette, a redhead, a blonde. Coincidence? Or is it intentional? A needy hum rumbles from the brunette’s throat. A handprint marks the redhead’s pale cheek. The blonde waits in anticipation.

They’re not really maids, right? This is a scene .

My eyes dart back to the man. His stance oozes power and harsh, sexual energy. His presence is dangerous and undeniable. They don’t stand a chance against this big beast. He’d ravish any woman— women , more viking plunderer than billionaire playboy.

The brunette parts her thighs. “Vieni e accarezzamimio.”

Come and caress me .

“Do gli ordini, piccolo troia.” Hand drawing high, he smacks her hard. I give the orders, you little slut.

My breath hitches in my throat.

And then, he turns.

My lips part on a long exhale as my eyes feast on him with a slow upward drag.

Big bare feet. Dress pants hanging from his hip bones. Deliciously wicked V-cut accentuated by fine black hair rises from the material. Eight-pack abs. Massive muscular chest. Long, large fingers wrapped around a black leather flogger. Corded arms. Thick neck. And … oh … wow .

His handsome face defines temptation. Perfect Roman nose. High cheekbones. Midnight stubble on his jawline and chin. Lips drawn tight. And he’s older—likely in his thirties. A man, through and through. Cocky and self-assured. Confident in his power. I grip the ice bucket tighter as butterflies dance in my stomach.

God help me, he’s sexy. In a dirty, animalistic way. Like he’d mount you from behind and bite your neck as he pounds into you.

This stranger’s every dirty fantasy rolled into one human being.

From my safe position by the door, I can only guess his eye color—probably dark chocolate or midnight black to match his hair. He studies the women, his aura cold and calculating.

Unyielding.

The women wiggle and shift, impatient.

Is this the game? Deny them control? Make them beg for their pleasure?

“Please.” The redhead switches from Italian to English. “Your mouth.”

I squeeze my thighs together as my skimpy underwear grows wet.

He jerks his hand, like he’s been waiting for someone to speak, then snaps the flogger.

The leather licks the redhead’s private area. “Cavolo,” she screeches.

Sweet hell. That. Was. Hot. Did it hurt? Did it feel as wicked as it looked?

“I don’t kiss.” His growl is like the strum of a chord on a bass guitar and penetrates deep. “And I sure as fuck don’t eat pussy. Capisci?”

So selfish. So cruel.

“Otherwise … puoi avere qualsiasi modo si desidera.” You can have it any way you want.

My skin burns. I’ll need multiple ice buckets when this is over.

I’m not ready for it to be over.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he rolls up his sleeves. Lord, even his forearms are massive. Prowling forward, he drags the flogger in a line across their backsides. Deciding which woman to begin with? Showing them he’s built to pleasure them all?

I can almost feel the leather graze my tender skin. Would a sensualist like me writhe beneath those lashes? Yes, my inner voice answers. It’s why my undergarments are silk or light cotton. My French hairbrush made of the finest boar bristle. I swear even making pasta, digging my hands into moistened flour and shaping dough between my fingers, arouses my nervous system. Would I enjoy being tied up in silk? How would I respond to being flogged?

“Quale di voi troie sarà la prima?” Which of you sluts is first?

Oh. My. God. Me, please.

My body trembles, and the ice bucket slips in my arms. Cubes crash and the plastic lining crackles as I struggle to right the bucket. My stomach drops, the weight of what’s happened paralyzing me with fear. I stand half-hidden by the door and pray I wasn’t too loud.

Seconds that feel like hours tick by as the women beg for his attention.

“Lo sono la prima.” I’m first.

“La seconda.” Second.

“Non è giusto.” That’s not fair.

Goose bumps prick my skin. I’m flushed and skittish. Disaster averted, true—but do I stay?

Slowly, with great care and as silently as possible, I shift backward. One step. Two.

Thr—

The door’s ripped open, and his massive frame fills the space. His presence overwhelms my senses, and like a deer caught in headlights, I freeze. He’s ten times everything up this close.

Handsome—like, drop-dead gorgeous—with tousled jet-black hair and dark drawn eyebrows, lusciously plump lips he never pleases a woman with, and a small, faded scar on his right cheek from the violent lifestyle he must lead.

Powerful, like he’d snap you in two without hesitation, his chest a wall of muscles, his broad body leaving little room in the doorframe.

Sinful, like he’d make you come in unimaginably inventive ways, at his command, at his mercy, before slitting your throat and burying you in his backyard. Women all over the world have likely sacrificed their bodies for the thrill of his wicked presence.

Our eyes connect.

Blue —his eyes are blue. I was wrong.

Wrong to believe I could spy on a man of his ilk and get out alive.

“What the fuck do we have here?”

Blue eyes narrow. Heartless. Cruel.

I flush from toes to head.

He notices, his gaze shifting from my kitten heels to the top button of my pink dress, to my anxious expression. His eyebrows pinch, and he shakes his head. Like he didn’t expect someone like me to be spying on someone like him.

His massive form looms over my smaller one.

Alarm bells ring in my mind, too late to do any good. Isn’t there a hidden alcove or a hole in the hall floor, anywhere that can swallow me up—before he devours me whole?

“You get off being a kinky little voyeur?”

His husky tone wraps around my core like the lick of his flogger. Everything inside me quivers.

“Answer me.”

My response gets trapped inside my throat. With enormous willpower, three words finally slip out. “I … um … sorry.”

He pokes a finger onto the pearl button between my breasts, and I nearly drop the bucket. With slow, calculated movements, he continues the journey upward, tapping each pearl like he’s keeping count until he reaches the top button. Round and round he goes, rolling the pearl between his fingers, briefly, before plucking it free from the material and tossing it over his shoulder.

My breath catches, but he ignores my surprise, drawing his finger upward across my throat to rest beneath my chin. I’m startled by his actions and my reaction. Captured and enraptured by his presence.

With a steel-like push, he angles my chin up. Forcing me to look at him once again.

“Dressed for church, yet at my door, spying.”

This is what a tornado feels like, wild and surreal, destructive and deadly. I’m trapped, and spiraling, round and round.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty,” I murmur.

“Twenty,” he repeats, like it’s his least favorite number. A V mars his forehead as he considers me.

I blush beneath his intense scrutiny, and at the vivid memory of his other V . My gaze falters, and then drops.

Holy sweet Mary. If I make an upside-down peace sign, I can trace it with my fingers. No, you can’t … won’t . No. No. No. My eyes snap up to reconnect with his.

“You like what you see?” He smirks.

No, no, no, no, no.

Yes, hell yes.

I swallow hard.

“I respect honesty above all else, so be careful how you answer.” His tone is honey, his words fire. “You a little perv who gets her thrills from watching me?”

How do I answer? How can I explain? Swallowing hard, I decide on the simple truth. “I think so.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

Gorgeous blue eyes flash with surprise. “Huh.”

I stare at him, mortified. Wishing I could take my admission back.

His stare feels like he can see straight through me.

Then he steps closer.

It takes all my willpower not to run as he lifts the ice bucket lid, tosses it aside, and plucks an ice cube out. Slowly, ever so slowly, he presses it to my lips. The cube feels ten times colder, probably due to how the rest of me burns from his proximity.

“I’d ruin a kinky little voyeur like you.”

Everything stills except my racing heart.

“Get lost, before I change my mind. I’m not a man who indulges curious little sluts in pure pink dresses, no matter how ripe they are for the plucking.”

He pops the ice cube into his mouth.

Then the door slams in my face.