Mafia King by L. Steele

16

Karma

"What…what’s that supposed to mean?" My voice quivers. Hell, I hate that. I so don’t want to appear weak in front of this man. I bite down on my lower lip and his gaze drops there.

"Scared, Beauty?"

"Of course, not."

"You should be." He bends his elbow behind his back, and when he straightens his arm the light catches a flash of silver in his hand. "Wh…what’s that?"

He swoops out his arm and the front of my dress loosens. I glance down to find he’s cut through the straps holding up the dress. "What did you do?"

"What does it look like?"

"Do you have to answer every question with a question?"

He arches an eyebrow, then swoops out his hand again. His movements are so fast, they seem like a blur. I blink. He retreats, then surveys his handiwork. I glance down as the dress falls apart. Oh. He cut enough slashes in the front of the dress for it to literally deflate in on itself. Whoa. I glance up at his face, "Was that supposed to impress?" I murmur, "I mean, all you had to do was ask me to get undressed—"

"What’s the fun in that, hmm?"

He hooks his left forefinger in the neckline of my dress and tugs. With a whisper, the entire front of the dress separates. He throws it aside, as the back of the dress falls away, leaving me clad in my bra and panties. I raise my hands to cover myself, then stop. Damn it, I am not going to act like a shrinking violet. I have seen worse. I survived the foster care system, I survived dropping out of Goldsmiths and forging my own creative path. And look where that got me? Sitting in my underwear on the counter of the bathroom of a Mafia Capo in Sicily. Jeez, at least my life is not boring, I have to admit.

I place my arms in my lap, stare up at me, "What now?"

His lips curl. He reaches out, slides the flat edge of his knife under the strap of my bra, tugs. The thin material snaps. He does the same on the other side, then slides the tip of the blade under the strap between my breasts. He twists the blade and the tense material snaps. My bra falls away and cool air assails my heated flesh. My nipples instantly harden and my breasts swell. He doesn’t look down at my chest; neither do I.

His gaze intensifies; the darkness in those blue eyes swirls, coils in on itself. He seems both relaxed and on edge. Bored and turned on. Intensely focused, as always, and yet also, strangely, disconnected from everything. This mass of contradictions about him is what attracts me and challenges me and makes me want to do everything possible to get a rise out of him; get under his skin, break his control, watch him as he finally shattered. Or maybe that would be me. What will he do when he finally gives into those emotions that writhe and twist under his skin? Will he hurt me? And why does that thought not scare me?

"That all you got?" I allow my lips to curl. "The big, bad, alphahole Capo who loves to keep his men in check... That all you going to do to me?"

"You don’t have any sense of self-preservation, do you?"

I shake my head.

"That makes two of us."

He steps back from the edge of the sink. "On your feet."

I frown and he arches an eyebrow. "Do it," he growls, "now."

I slide down so my feet touch the floor, and my dress and the remnants of my bra fall away. I tip up my chin, hold his gaze. He reaches down, his arm moves, and I don’t need to look down to know that he’s cut through the straps holding up my panties. The fabric falls away, exposing my pussy to the air. I hold my elbows at my sides, not daring to glance down at myself.

He glances down at my core and his breathing grows ragged. "You shaved."

"Like I had a choice?" I scoff.

"You didn't," he agrees. "Part your legs for me, Belleza."

"And if I say no?"

"I’ll do it for you." His grin widens, "And trust me, I’ll enjoy it, too."

"Bastard." I slide my feet apart, and he thrusts his massive thigh between them, forcing my legs further apart.

The thick muscles feel like a column of iron against my most tender place. My core clenches and my lower belly ties itself in knots. I lock my thighs around the muscle, press my core into the rigid pillar.

His breath catches and his dark pupils seem to grow even blacker. One side of his lips twists, as he raises his knife and places the flat edge against my cheek.

I freeze, watch as he slides the blade under a lock of hair. He flicks his wrist and the strand slices clean through before it drifts to the floor. Heat flushes my skin; my core clenches. My nipples grow impossibly hard, and damn it, I can’t understand this crazy response to his screwed-up gesture. I mean, I’ve always known my tastes are a bit out there. They would have to be to mesh with the goth side of me, the one that is attracted to everything dark and beautiful. Like him.

He flattens the blade against the side of my face, draws it down without breaking skin, down my neck, down to the valley between my breasts.

My nipples continue to tighten, until they are painful points. My breasts seem to swell. Moisture gathers between my legs, and his nostrils flare.

"That turns you on, hmm?"

"Of course, not." My voice cracks and his grin widens.

“If I were to check between your legs, would I find you wet, Beauty?

Yes. Yes."No." I shake my head.

"You know what?" he says in a conversational tone. "I am tired of you lying to me, sweetheart."

He retracts his hand, flips his knife so he’s holding it with the handle face up, the blade pinched between his fingers. He pulls back his thigh, only to replace it with the handle of the blade.

"Wh…what are you doing?" I squeak.

"What do you think?" He nudges the handle of the blade against my entrance and goosebumps pop on my skin.

"Michael," I whisper, "don’t."

"Tell me you don’t want this, Beauty. Tell me that depraved part of you inside that I’ve sensed does not want to know how it feels to ride a knife handle."

No. No.I nod and his entire body tenses. His jaw tightens, his chest planes seem to harden, and his shoulders seem to grow wider, filling my line of sight.

Heat flushes my skin and my toes curl. I curve my fingers into fists at my sides, hold his gaze as he fits the handle of the knife into my melting slit. He thrusts up and into me and I gasp. My heart begins to race and my pulse pounds at my temples. Why is this very obscene, very kinky action of his such a turn on? It shouldn’t be. I should be repulsed. I should be crying out, asking him to stop. Telling him he can’t insert a weapon into the most delicate part of me. I open my mouth, but the words don’t come out. Instead, I part my legs wider, bend my knees, and push down on the handle. Too much, too thick. My lips part, a groan trembles from my mouth, and I wheeze.

His gaze intensifies and the skin around eyes tightens. "Fuck." He groans, "F-u-ck, Beauty. “

He winds his fingers around the nape of my neck, brings me close enough for my breasts to press into the fabric of his shirt. He urges me to tip my chin up, as he glares into my eyes. His pupils are dilated, the black filling his iris until only a dark blue circle remains around the circumference. A lock of his dark hair falls over his forehead. A strand of grass clings to the thick strands, reminding me of the fall I had taken so very recently. He looks like someone on the verge of coming undone, and somehow, the thought fills me with a gnawing need. The emptiness swells in my belly, crawls up my spine, and I raise my palm, press it into his cheek.

"Michael," I whisper, "fuck me with your knife handle."

Embers spark in his eyes. He bares his teeth, grips the back of my neck even harder, then he pulls the knife handle out, only to slide it back inside. A groan spills from my lips. He dips his head, places his mouth so close to mine, his nose bumps mine, his eyelashes brush mine.

Jesus… This… When he does this. When he watches me with so much intensity that it feels like he’s crawling his way inside me, when he peers into my eyes as if he’s searching for my hidden depths, as if he means to solve me, decimate me, rip me apart and put me back together in a fashion that makes so much more sense to him, to me.

He pulls out the knife, then slides it up inside me again, deeper, deeper, and my thighs tremble. My breasts swell further. My knees seem to almost give way and I grip his biceps, feeling the rock-hard muscle push back, unyielding to my touch. And it’s so damn erotic. The heat of his body around me, the toughness of his body under my palms, the hard length that he’s inserted up between my legs—that somehow symbolizes exactly how screwed up this…whatever connection is there between us, is.

He continues to fuck me with the knife handle, and heat crawls up my spine. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, dampens my palms at the point of contact of where I am still holding onto his shirt sleeve covered biceps.

He glances down his nose at my mouth as he weaves the knife handle in and out of me, in and out. The trembling begins at my toes, sweeps up my thighs, coils in my belly. "Oh," I gasp, "oh, my god."

My eyelids flutter as I tense, my muscles lock in preparation as I hurl faster, closer, to that edge.

"Michael," I gasp, "please…."

"Eyes on me," he snaps and I crack open my eyelids to stare into that blackness that swirls in his eyes. The blue, like chipped ice around the edges, promises me that, even if I manage to conquer his blackness, I’ll slip and fall through the icy surface, to an uncertain end, from which I won’t return without being changed.

"What are you doing to me?" I whisper as his lips twist.

He pulls out the knife, slides it up and into me one last time, hitting a spot deep inside that I didn’t know existed. A moan bleeds from my lips, and he bares his teeth, "Come for me, Beauty. Come all over my knife."