His Mafia Prince
Chapter 258: Wreck Me, Daddy

Chapter 258: Wreck Me, Daddy

(SASHA)

I smear his hole with slick and slap the rest on myself. There’s not enough of it. I haven’t fucked him for weeks—months—and I worry that I’ll hurt him, that he’ll be out of practice, but the second I get my cockhead into his ass, feel his ring around me, tight but welcoming, all my anxieties go up in a puff of smoke, incinerated as my fire for him rages out of control.

"Fuck." I’m the one who curses, and I keep cursing, hissing out words as I shove my way into him inch by inch—Christ, fuck, fuck, Tyler, oh fuck—as though I’m the one having a dick crammed into my ass with minimal prep in a reeking Roman back alley. He feels unyielding all the way in until he isn’t, suddenly, his body giving way, and I swear to God I can feel his soul opening up to me along with his gut.

Tyler is hiking up his hips, forced up on his toes, his jaw clenched tight against my profane lips, his ass clamping down on me. I let out a shaky breath of relief. Finally. He makes his first noise since I started pushing into him: a whimper.

It’s fuel to my fire. I open my mouth wide to bite at the side of his neck, pull his head back, force him to expose his throat as though I’m about to cut it, spray his life all over the wooden door I’m fucking him against. But I don’t want to kill.

I only want to fuck.

The need is burning through me, fizzing under my skin, the need to rut into him, but I’m still waiting for him to adjust, for the tension in his body to lessen, just a little. I get one hand on his cock and coax it back into full hardness. His throat muscles bounce under my other hand as he swallows and gets his breath back, and when I press my lips back to the side of his neck, I feel his pulse, fluttering like a new butterfly.

He says something, hoarse and gravelly, and I release his throat, letting him try again. "Wreck me," he whispers into the door. His hand finds mine on his junk, pushes it aside, and takes over jacking his cock. "Like you promised. Come on," he growls at me.

I grab the back of his neck, squeezing hard, and force his face against the door. And then I drill into him, making his ass shake with the force of it. His eyes are screwed shut, his mouth pulled into a grimace, but when I reach around to check, his dick is dripping like a tap, his hand flying over it.

Slap me around a little, he asked before we started, so I crack my hand down hard on his asscheek, and he jerks. The noise reverberates through the alleyway. I spank him again, then grab the meat of his ass and squeeze it hard until he whines a protest.

I’ve reached that stage where I feel like I could fuck forever like I could give him my dick all night, stay as iron-hard when the sun rises as I am right now. So I switch it up, start pulling out further, drive into him harder, shoving him against the door, and lean in to lick the flat of my tongue up his cheek, bite at his jawline.

"You tell me now, uccellino. Who do you belong to?"

I fuck a shaky, soft, "You," out of him, so I smack his ass again, hard as I can, in rhythm with sharp, shallow thrusts of my cock, until he cries out, "You, fuck, Sasha, I belong to you!"

"You’re goddamn right you do." I bite hard at his neck, making him squeal. But I want him to have my marks all over him tomorrow. I want people walking in the streets to know exactly what he was doing the night before, and then, as they see my arm around him and my smug, lazy grin back at them, to understand exactly who put those brands on him. "You belong to me, and everyone in Rome is going to know it."

I wriggle a hand between Tyler’s chest and the door, find his nipple, and twist it hard, the way I know he likes it when he’s in these moods. And that’s what does it for him. He arches back into me, throwing his head back so fast that I’m lucky he doesn’t break my damn nose, and gives a strangled yelp as his balls unload. I can feel the waves of his orgasm as his ass spasms around me, milking my dick as his own sprays against the wood. I hold on as long as I can, let him enjoy it, but I can’t last much longer.

I wrap my arms around him and lift him right off his feet so he’s impaled on my cock, half-crushed against the door, and I blast into him, the force of it making my knees shake as I coat him inside with my spunk. He writhes around helplessly, gasping out my name, and then I let him back to his feet, but keep him held tight in my arms.

I moan into his neck, half-laughing, and let reality return only slowly. But eventually the stench of the place wins out over our snuggling and petting, and my cock has softened enough that it slips out of him, slapping down against my thigh spent and tender.

Fucking my husband in a piss-stained alley is an odd form of therapy, but it’s worked. I feel so much calmer, so much closer to Tyler now as we rearrange our clothes, murmur words of love, and steal kisses and promises from each other.

But after we emerge from the alley, hand in sticky hand, and make our way back to the hotel, I see the very same man I saw at the newsstand this morning. He’s pacing back and forth down at the bottom of the street our hotel is on, and just as I spot him, he turns to walk quickly away.

He gives one furtive backward glance, and I lock eyes with him just before he disappears around the corner.

Paranoia or no paranoia, sometimes they really are out to get you.