THE MAFIA'S FAVORITE MAID

CHAPTER 9

He kept stroking.

His fist moved in long, powerful pulls from the thick base all the way to the swollen head, twisting slightly at the top so the dark, shiny tip disappeared into his grip before sliding free again. Every upward stroke forced another clear bead of precum to leak out and coat his fingers. The wet sound grew louder—slick, filthy, rhythmic. His hips began to thrust up into his hand, short and controlled, like he was already imagining burying that massive length inside someone tight.

The veins along the shaft stood out starkly under the low lamp light. The heavy balls beneath his c**k tightened as he worked himself harder. His breathing turned ragged. A low, continuous growl vibrated in his chest each time he said my name.

“Aria… f**k, Aria…”

His fist sped up. The wet, obscene sound of skin sliding over that huge c**k filled the entire study. Pre-c*m dripped down onto his thigh in thin, glistening strands. His abs flexed. His head tipped back. The hand that had been gripping the chair moved down to squeeze his balls while the other kept pumping that thick twelve-inch c**k without mercy.

I could not look away.

Then his whole body went rigid.

A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat as the first thick rope of c*m shot from the tip, arcing high and landing across his stomach and open shirt. Another followed, then another—heavy, white pulses that kept spilling over his fist while he stroked himself through it, milking every drop. The amount seemed endless. It coated his fingers, dripped down the length of his c**k, and pooled on his skin in shiny streaks.

My eyes flew wide.

In that exact moment my bare foot slipped on the polished floor.

The soft scuff was tiny, but in the silence it sounded like a gunshot.

His head snapped toward the door so fast I felt the air change. For one second pure anger flashed across his face—dark, lethal, ready to destroy whoever had dared to watch him. Then his eyes locked on mine through the narrow gap.

The anger melted into something slower. Darker.

A smirk curved his mouth.

He did not cover himself. He simply sat there, still holding that massive, c*m-covered c**k, and looked straight at me while the last thick drops leaked from the tip.

My legs started shaking so hard I almost fell.

I turned and ran.

I didn’t care about the noise. I flew down the hallway, up the stairs, and into my room, slamming the door shut behind me and locking it with trembling fingers. My back hit the wood. My chest rose and fell in panicked, shallow gasps. I could still see it—every thick vein, every powerful stroke, the way his c*m had painted his stomach while he growled my name.

I stumbled to the bed and collapsed onto my back.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pulled the thin blanket over my body, and tried to force sleep to come.

It refused.

Every time I closed my eyes I saw him again: legs spread, fist working that enormous c**k, the wet sound of his hand, the way he had looked at me after he finished—smirking, unashamed, still hard and dripping while he watched me freeze in the doorway like prey that had just been caught.

My heart would not slow down.

My skin felt too hot.

And no matter how tightly I shut my eyes, Dante Moretti’s voice kept echoing in the dark, low and rough and impossible to escape.

“Aria…”