Indebted to the Mafia King
Equilibrium

Eleni

Dante surges up to meet my mouth, and within moments, he has to drop back against the pillows to catch his breath again.

"I'm sorry, pet." He runs his hands up my sides. "I don't quite have my stamina back."

The siren song of old patterns calls, but I'm not the Eleni I was the last time he used that name for me. It still sends a shiver down my spine, but if we're finding a new balance, maybe we don't have to let habits dictate what comes next. "That's okay." I nip at his earlobe, kiss down to the hollow of his throat. "I have enough stamina for the both of us."

He quirks an eyebrow at me when I lean back. I know what he's looking for. I stay silent.

"Sir?" he prompts.

"Sir just wiped out like a cartoon character walking in the front door." I smile. "So why don't you let me take the reins tonight?"

Indecision flickers across Dante's face, and for a moment, I wonder if he's ever had sex where he wasn't in charge.

Then, he says, "Okay."

Part of me didn't expect that. My breath catches, and I sit back. He really does trust me

"Tell me your colors," I say to buy a second to regain my own equilibrium.

"Green is good, yellow means I need a second, red means stop." He smirks. "Mistress."

Somehow, staring into his dark eyes, I don't find that particularly funny. It feels like slipping into a role I've been dancing around, one where I not only get to take charge but get to take care of those around me. Is this how Dante feels all the time?

I push the thought aside and return my mouth to his neck, taking my time, tasting the salt of his sweat and the scrape of his stubble. He groans and winds a hand into my hair. If the roles were reversed, he would take my hand away, but I want to feel him. He's alive, and safe, and he didn't kill Christos in cold blood. He didn't want to hurt him at all. So I drag my teeth over his tender skin and enjoy the vibrations of the resulting noise.

Before long, I reach the neck of his T-shirt. I ghost my hands down his sides to grab the hem, and he sits abruptly up.

I release his shirt. "Sit back. I'll tell you when to move. We don't need you popping more stitches." "I'm not "

I raise an eyebrow at him and push him back against the pillow with a single finger. He swallows and moves easily. Good. Tonight, I know what he needs. It's my job to keep him safe. That thought burns like a sip of scotch down into the fire in my gut, and I slide down his body until my face is at waist level. His cock already stands proud in his underwear, but I ignore it in favor of lifting the hem of his T-shirt a single inch and putting my mouth there. He groans, grabs my hair again, and his hips jerk, but he doesn't try to sit up. I cover the line of skin in attention, and when he doesn't do anything to hurt himself, I lift the shirt a little higher and begin again.

Working my way up his chest takes a long time, even avoiding the railway map of stitches covering half of him. I'm always careful not to put my weight on him, taking as long as I need to reposition so he's comfortable. I linger on his nipple, circling it with my tongue until the low groans falling from his lips turn into curses and his cock grows desperately hard against my waist. When I reach his defined collarbone, I lean back. "Sit forward. Arms up."

He's panting again, but less like he needs more air and more like he's hungry. Still, he doesn't move until I give the order. I lift his shirt over his head and toss it to the side. Then, I climb off the bed. His mouth falls open in mute disappointment, and I smile.

"You hurt your hands tonight, didn't you?"

He nods.

"I don't want you to hurt anymore." I pull my shirt off, then unfasten my shorts.

Dante groans and reaches for me.

"Not ever again." The words hum through me, a promise I intend to keep far outside of this room. It's easy to strip off my bra and panties with his desperate gaze on me. Before I climb back into bed, I ease his boxers over his cock and off. The sheen of precum on the tip makes me lick my lips.

I get on the bed and straddle him, then rub my pussy back and forth over his naked cock in time with the rise and fall of his chest. God, he feels incredible. Someday soon, I'll have enough spare time to get on the pill. However people do that. For now, I ignore the voice between my legs begging me to fuck him just like this and reach for the drawer I know holds his condoms.

It takes a few seconds of blind grabbing, but I find one outside the box and tear it open with my teeth. Dante whines and runs his hands over my thighs, thrusting back up softly like he misses the friction. I burn the moment into my brain. The boss of the Staten Island Saints, wordlessly begging for me to fuck him. He trusts me too much to even ask out loud. I kiss his cheek and slide the condom on slowly. He groans again. "I

"Don't rush," I murmur against the shell of his ear. Then, I sink onto him.

The feeling of being full after so long pulls a groan from my lips that I don't bother hiding. Dante just stares up at me, his eyes blown wide, like every thought in his head is dedicated to not rushing, to listening. I grab his left hand, the one with fewer scrapes, and put it on one of my breasts.

He circles my nipple in time with the gentle pace I set riding him. His cock presses against my inner walls, another reason to do away with caution, but I really don't want to hurt him. I can imagine almost nothing worse than having him hand all this power to me and misusing it. So I rock against him to the beat of a heart that almost stopped, wringing moans and curses and half-shaped versions of my name from his lips. He watches me with wonder in his eyes. "I'm close," he pants before long. "I'm sorry."

"No sorries." I brush a kiss over his lips. "I want you to feel good."

He nods. "So good."

I guide his other hand up to my hair and stay bent over him, still not putting pressure on his chest. "Then come for me."

Dante slams his hips up into mine and goes still, my name frozen on his lips. The ease with which he obeys sends me tumbling over the edge in a staggering blast of pleasure. When the aftershocks stop, I roll off him. Not all the time. But that could be part of a new equilibrium.