Mafia King's Contract Breeder

When he returned, I felt the blunt, rubbery tip of something press firmly against my already-sensitive entrance. Emmanuel pushed it inside without preamble—no warning, no gentleness.

A plug.

It was thick enough to force a sharp gasp from my throat as it stretched me open all over again. Once fully seated, the base expanded with a soft, deliberate pressure, locking itself in place and sealing every drop of his cum deep inside me.

The weight of it was obscene—heavy, intimate, and impossible to ignore. Every tiny shift of my hips made me acutely aware of how thoroughly he had filled and claimed me.

"You’ll wear that until I take it out for you," he said, voice dark with pure possessive satisfaction.

At last, he removed the belt and the ropes from my legs. Blood rushed back into my limbs in tingling waves. I sat up with a wince, the plug shifting inside me as I carefully slid off the edge of the bed and took a tentative step. The movement sent a deep, rolling pressure through my core that made my breath hitch.

Sick pervert... I groaned internally.

I felt sticky and marked everywhere—his cum drying on my thighs, the faint bruises from his fingers, the lingering heat across my ass. Every inch of my skin carried the evidence of him.

And even after all that, he put a plug inside me as though he couldn’t stand to leave me empty for even a second.

"Did you like that?" Emmanuel asked, pulling me firmly between his spread thighs.

I gave him one short, dazed nod, my mind still floating somewhere between exhaustion and reluctant satisfaction.

I hated it.

I loved it.

A small smile flitted across his face, gone so quickly that I might have imagined it.

Without thinking, I reached out and tugged lightly at a lock of his dark hair that had decided to curl stubbornly in the opposite direction of the rest. The soft strand slipped between my fingers.

His expression shuttered instantly. He leaned back just enough to take hold of my wrist and press my hand firmly back down to my side.

The warm, satiated haze around me began to thin.

Was this the part where he tossed me back to the staff quarters? Use me, take something real from me, then put me neatly away like a sex doll that had served its purpose?

I pulled away.

Emmanuel clicked his tongue, a low sound of mild irritation.

"What is it now?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" I muttered, looking around the room instead of at him. The stolen white shirt was a complete disaster—wrinkled, stained, and thoroughly ruined. I wondered what I was supposed to wear back downstairs.

"You are glaring at me as though I have offended you. Again," he said, catching my chin and turning my face back toward him.

I shrugged, the movement small and defensive.

At my silence, Emmanuel exhaled a long, controlled sigh. Then he stood in one fluid motion and swept me up against his bare chest. The sudden contact enveloped me in the sharp, masculine scent of sweat-damp skin, sex, and that lingering trace of his cologne. My bare breasts pressed against the hard plane of his torso.

I yelped in surprise, legs kicking uselessly in the air.

"You can’t kick me out like this," I protested, voice muffled against his shoulder. "At least give me something to wear!"

Emmanuel gave me an incredulous look, as if the idea was absurd.

Instead of carrying me out of the bedroom, he strode straight through the doorway into the luxurious ensuite bathroom. He set me down carefully on a padded bench and turned the taps. Warm water rushed out in a steady stream, beginning to fill the deep, sunken marble bathtub. Soft steam curled upward, carrying a faint citrus scent as it filled the air.

"You’re a mess," he said coolly. "I need to clean you up properly."

...He wasn’t kicking me out?

The realization settled slowly, strange and unexpected.

I glanced at the large mirror above the sink and made a face. My hair looked like a rat’s nest that had been through a particularly violent storm—tangled, damp with sweat, and completely wild.

"Get in," Emmanuel ordered once the tub was full of steamy, lightly bubbled water.

My sore muscles immediately began to relax as I sank into the heat. The tub was enormous—easily large enough for me to stretch out fully, almost three meters from end to end. I could have floated comfortably if he hadn’t climbed in beside me a moment later, taking up an unreasonable amount of space with his long limbs and broad shoulders.

I dipped my head under the water and soaked my hair thoroughly. When I surfaced, Emmanuel was already right in front of me. He squeezed a generous amount of citrus-fragranced shampoo into his palm and began working it carefully into my tangled curls, his expression serious and focused, as though this were a task of genuine importance.

This was... weirdly intimate.

Sharing a bath. His strong fingers massaging gently against my scalp. The heat radiating off his wet, naked body only inches away from mine. Steam curling between us. The soft sound of water lapping against marble.

It felt more intimate than the sex had.

My eyes tracked a single rivulet of water sliding down the defined lines of his chest and disappearing beneath the surface. A sudden, unwelcome rush of heat bloomed low in my stomach.

Emmanuel really did have an unfairly perfect body—lean muscle without a single soft place, not a hint of excess anywhere. Without thinking, I reached out and gave him a small, experimental pinch just above his hip.

"Tsk. Hands off." He stilled immediately, making a sharp, annoyed sound. "You do not touch me without permission."

"You’re touching me," I pointed out.

"You are under the mistaken impression that this is reciprocal," he replied coolly.

He continued working the shampoo through my long hair until every strand was coated in a thick layer of fragrant foam.

"Right," I muttered, clenching my hands into fists. "I should just be awfully grateful that you’re touching me at all."

"Exactly," Emmanuel said, without the slightest trace of irony.

Then, without warning, he pushed my head firmly under the water to rinse the foam out.

It was so sudden that I choked, thrashing until I shoved him away hard enough to break the surface. I surfaced gasping, water streaming down my face.

"A bit of warning would be nice!" I coughed indignantly. "Are you washing me or waterboarding me?"

The corner of Emmanuel’s mouth twitched—just barely.

"I do have more experience with the latter."

I blinked, rubbing water from my eyes.

Was that... a joke?

Did the man actually possess a sense of humor? A deeply twisted one, if so.

I looked at him again, real curiosity beginning to overtake my usual instinctive resistance. I realized, with sudden clarity, that I knew almost nothing about him beyond his public reputation and the very specific ways he liked to fuck me. I didn’t know who Emmanuel Sagres actually was as a person.

"How old are you?" I asked.

I didn’t even know that basic fact. Meanwhile, this man had run a full background check on me the moment I entered his orbit.

So unfair.

Not reciprocal.

"Does that matter?" he asked, leaning back against the edge of the tub, water lapping at his collarbones.

"Ye-es," I said. "Matters for... fertility purposes."

"I’m thirty-two."

That was younger than I had expected. Not that he looked particularly old, but his reputation was so established, so heavy with quiet threat in East Windlem. It wasn’t recent news that people had started calling him the mafia king.

When had he started living this life?

"As for my sexual ability..." he continued, his gaze flicking deliberately down my body beneath the water, "you have experienced that."

I clenched instinctively around the thick plug still seated deep inside me. The solid, unyielding weight of it holding every drop of him trapped inside me sent a fresh pulse of heat and awareness through my core.