MY MAFIA BOYFRIEND

Good Girl

After a long moment Julian finally eased out of her. The sudden emptiness made Isabella shiver. Warm c*m slipped down the insides of her thighs, soaking into the sheets beneath her. He stayed close, chest still pressed to her back, one heavy arm locked around her waist as if he expected her to try and crawl away the second he moved.

He didn’t speak right away. His mouth simply rested against the side of her neck, breathing her in, while his fingers traced idle, possessive patterns over the soft skin of her stomach.

Eventually he rolled them both onto their sides, keeping her back tucked firmly against his chest. His still-half-hard c**k nestled between her thighs, slick with the mess he had left inside her.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.” His hand slid lower, cupping her tender p***y, feeling the way she twitched at the contact. “You’re sore. Overstimulated. And still dripping me.” He pressed two fingers gently against her entrance, not pushing in, just holding them there. “I like it.”

Isabella’s eyes fluttered shut. “You’re obsessed.”

“Yes.” No hesitation. “I told you what I was going to do. Keep you full. Mark every inch. Make sure your body remembers who it belongs to even when I’m not inside it.”

He stayed like that for a while—quiet, heavy, present—until her breathing evened out and the most of the trembling faded. Then he shifted, rising from the bed in one fluid movement. Isabella heard the soft rustle of clothing, the quiet pad of bare feet across the floor, running water.

When he returned he was shirtless, jeans still open, a warm damp cloth in his hand. He climbed back onto the bed and carefully cleaned between her legs, wiping away the excess of his release with surprising gentleness. The contrast only made the earlier roughness feel sharper.

Once he was satisfied, he tossed the cloth aside and pulled her into his lap, arranging her so she straddled him, still wearing only his black shirt. His hands settled on her bare hips beneath the fabric.

“Look at me.”

She did.

Julian’s eyes were dark, serious, completely focused on her. “I’m not a soft man, Isabella. I don’t do gentle relationships or careful courtships. The people in my world either belong to me or they become problems. You walked into that world. You let me take you apart. You stayed. You said the words.”

His thumbs stroked slow circles over her hipbones.

“So now we decide what that means.”

Isabella’s heart was beating too fast. “What do you want it to mean?”

“I want you here,” he said simply. “In my bed. Wearing my clothes. Taking my c**k whenever I decide I need you. I want to know where you are. I want every man who looks at you to understand you’re already claimed. And I want you to stop pretending you don’t want exactly that.”

She swallowed. “That’s not a relationship. That’s ownership.”

A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth. “Same thing, in my world.”

He leaned in and kissed her—slow this time, deep, almost tender—while one hand slid up under the shirt to cup her breast. His thumb brushed over her n****e until it hardened under his touch.

When he pulled back, his voice was quieter.

“You can still walk out that door. I’ll even let you keep the shirt. But if you stay… if you stay past tonight… then you’re mine in every way that matters. No half-measures. No testing the waters. You belong to me.”

Isabella stared at him. The ache between her legs, the bruises on her skin, the way her body still pulsed with the memory of him—all of it warred with the small, rational voice that knew exactly how dangerous this man was.

She didn’t move.

Julian’s eyes darkened with something that looked almost like satisfaction.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

He kissed her again, harder this time, and rolled them both until she was beneath him once more. His jeans were shoved down just far enough. The thick head of his c**k dragged through the mess still coating her folds, then pressed against her entrance.

“One more time,” he said against her mouth. “Before we talk about the rest of your life.”

And then he sank into her again—slow, deep, relentless—claiming every inch of her as if the decision had already been made.