His Mafia Prince
Chapter 245: When Wicked Craves

Chapter 245: When Wicked Craves

(TYLER)

I couldn’t hear much from when I slowed down behind , but the more relaxed atmosphere between Sasha and Gloria when I descend tells me that Gloria’s said her piece. She seems to be able to deal with Sasha in her own way.

Now if only Sasha and I could find peace in the present.

He lets me take him up in the elevator—the new one, so it doesn’t just stop on the third floor, but goes all the way up. I study him as we ascend, wondering exactly how much pain he really is in. He’s not so pale today, at least. Maybe the wander around the yard did him some good.

He glances over at me. "What are you thinking about?"

"You," I tell him truthfully.

His smile is devilish. "Same," he says huskily.

"Good." The elevator comes to a halt, and Sasha steps out gingerly.

"Then let’s go and get your meds from Darla, and I’ll give you a nice, sexy sponge bath."

Sasha sighs, but doesn’t argue. He’s not yet allowed to get his dressings wet, and we have a hospital appointment later today to check them out. We stop by Darla’s room, where she gives him his medication and he takes it without complaint. That’s Sasha being good.

But I wish he’d stop trying to do everything like he used to do; he tries to stride down the hallway to our room instead of taking his time. The wheelchair has been replaced in our room when we get there, and Sasha sends it a dark look.

"I hate that thing," he announces. "From now on, I’m not using it."

"Okay, honey," I say easily. It’s not the time to have that particular argument. "Let’s get you undressed."

The shower spans the whole of the wall, thankfully, because it means there’s space for Sasha’s seat to be out of the spray—he’s under strict orders from Darla not to get those bandages wet—while I can stand under the water myself.

But once I’ve slicked myself down, I kneel before him on a towel, looking up into his beautiful, proud face. It never fails to amaze me when I think about how Sasha dragged himself up through the ranks of his Family.

I am happy to kneel before him because he’s worthy of it.

He’s a god among men, worthy of my worship. We have all the time in the world if we want it, and I think the combination of pleasure and his meds can only be a good thing for his pain, so I take it slowly.

I tongue around the head of that beautiful cock of his, caressing under his ridge over and over again until I get a moan out of him.

"Suck it," he growls, looking down at me. "Don’t pretend you don’t want to."

I wriggle my tongue into his slit while I keep hard eye contact, and the flavour of him spreads across my tongue, smooth and salty. "I want to take my time with you," I say, between pressing soft kisses to the sides of his dick, up and down.

"You know how much I need this?" he growls. "I’ve been aching for you all morning."

I smile against his hot flesh, humming happily at the idea. "That’s hot, baby. Doesn’t make me want to rush any, though."

He reaches down to grab a handful of my hair and tips my head back. "We do it my way. Open up."

I let him jam his dick into my willing mouth, try to make my throat relax, swallowing him down until my nose is pressed hard into his damp curls. He keeps me there, and he’s breathing hard while I can’t at all, my nose squished up against him.

The taste of him has filled up my senses and I’m drooling all over him, my throat working helplessly as I try not to choke. It’s only when I give a jerk, start to splutter, that he pulls me back off him. I cough and clear my throat, my eyes watering.

"You’re right," he says softly, thoughtfully, as I catch my breath. "Why shouldn’t I take my time with that filthy mouth of yours?"

I open it to answer and find it crammed full of cock again, his hand hard at the back of my neck as he pushes me down inexorably to the base once more. This time I can breathe through my nose at least, can even bob my head a little when he allows it, and I moan when his foot feels between my thighs and finds my ballsack, nudging it with his toes.

This time when he pulls me off, his eyes are glazed. Either the sex or the meds are working their magic. It’s working for me, too, my dick wagging between my legs. It’s dripping onto Sasha’s ankle, and between my spit and my spunk, we’re going to have to sponge him down again afterward. But it’ll be so worth it.

He pushes my hands away and takes his dick up himself, gives a few cursory strokes. My husband’s cock is fucking majestic and he knows it, because I tell him often enough. Now, though, he wants my attention elsewhere. "Suck on my balls, angel," he tells me. "No hands. Show me how talented that tongue of yours really is."

I nuzzle between his spread thighs, nosing my way down to my goal, and breathe him in. Under the floral soap—the same soap I used in childhood all the way up until I cast out from my family home—I can smell the more welcome, now more familiar scent of Sasha Adonis.

It’s the same smell he left behind on the sheets that first night we touched, and I buried my face into it to huff him up for night after night, the same way I’m doing now.

I refused to let the housekeepers change those sheets until weeks after, until his scent faded and they only smelled of myself. It wasn’t long after that that I gave in.

I push that memory aside and lavish attention on Sasha’s pillowy nuts with my tongue, cradling them in my wide-open mouth until my jaw hurts, drooling all over them, moaning with pleasure. By the time he pulls me up again with a hand in my hair, his cock is rock-hard, spilling at the tip, a long string of pre-cum making a bridge from his slit to his belly.

I’m leaking a river myself, dripping into the already-damp towel.

I lick along the large vein running up Sasha’s dick, keeping my eyes on him, and I see his eye twitch—but that’s the only indication he’s at all affected by the cock-worship from his gorgeous omega, on his knees, whimpering as I slide the underside of my tongue over the sticky promise welling from his cock.

I reach up to take his shaft, to really start working on him, but he grabs my wrist, his other hand tightening in my hair.

"No," he says, his voice rough. "No hands. You get me off with your mouth or you don’t get me off at all."

My eyes feel heavy-lidded as I look up at him, licking my lips, seeking out every atom of flavour he’s painted onto my mouth.

He lets go of my arm and I slide my hand up his thigh instead, over the rough bandages, all the way up to his chest. He doesn’t stop me, even when I pinch his nipple into a tight bud, toying with it. !

No hands apply to junk only. Got it.