Page 70 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

I ride him. Slow, then faster, my body finding a rhythm that has nothing to do with patience and everything to do with claiming what is mine.

The forest floor is cold under my knees as they dig into damp earth. My hips roll forward. His hands tighten on my waist, fingerprints pressing into skin that will bruise. And I love it. I love him. I can’t wait to see his mark on me come morning. I want the bruises. I want the proof of this morning on my body the way I want his voice branded into my memory.

"Rowan." His name tears through me. My head drops forward, hair falling around both our faces, a curtain of white streaked with pine needles and dirt. "I'm soooo close."

"Come for me." His voice is pure need made raw with hunger. His thumb finds the place where our bodies meet, circles, presses. My spine arches. My vision whites out. The orgasm crashes through me with a force that drives my nails into his chest and rips a sound from my mouth that the entire ridge hears.

He quickly follows. His body bows off the ground, shoulders driving into dirt, hands locked on my hips. The groan that leaves him is deep and guttural. His cock pulses deep inside me. The veins in his neck stand taut, his jaw clamps shut, and his whole body tenses beneath mine while the forest settles back into silence around us.

I collapse onto his chest, my breath ragged. The forest floor presses cold and damp against my knees, a contrast so sharp against the heat of his body that goosebumps race up my thighs and across my stomach. Pine needles cling to my skin, to his, to the sweat drying between us. A bird calls from somewhere above the canopy and the sound is so normal, so completely ordinary after what just happened, that a laugh bubbles up from my throat before I can stop it. His hand finds the back of my head and holds me against his chest. His heartbeat fills my ear, heavy and fast, slowing by degrees.

"Mulch," I say into his shirt.

His chest vibrates with laughter that refuses to die.

I lift my head and look down at my lover. He’s opened his heart and soul to me and all I can give back is the same.

“You own me, Rowan Volkov. For better or for worse for both of us, I’m yours. You’ve given me a lot so I’m giving you the one thing no one else has. Well, except my virginity.”

That makes him smile and it’s the most beautiful sight to see him relax around me.

“I give you my unwavering trust.”

“I’ll cherish it and protect it right alongside your heart.”

He moves his knees and pushes me forward. His lips lock over mine silently sealing both our fates together in that instant.

I sit up and ease off him. “So now that I’ve seen you in your lingerie, I think I want to get you more.”

His brows pull together as he stands and tucks himself back into his sweatpants.

I throw him a smirk. “My dearest Russian, you fill those pants out in a way that makes a woman cream her panties instantly.” I look down at him and appreciate the outline of his… oh, yeah. The man is already getting hard.

His fingers tangle in my hair and I’m pulled roughly into strong arms again. Only this time, I'm off the forest floor entirely when he kisses me senseless.

It’s when he breaks away that I spot what this whole morning has been about. Over his shoulder, through the trees, I can see it. The north side of the cabin. A massive pile of decomposing mulch really is stacked directly against the cedar siding. Three weeks of organic material pressed against untreated wood with zero drainage consideration is no bueno.

He sets me down and I walk toward the cabin in boots, his torn shirt, and nothing else. My professional brain takes over every other operating system I possess.

"Three weeks of decomposing mulch against a cedar foundation with no drainage grade adjustment is a structural nightmare." I spin back to face him only to find he’s followed me. "The moisture retention alone will start breaking down the wood fibers within a month. If there's already mold, the fungal spread could compromise the support beams by fall."

His expression is all serious as I explain the potential problems he might be facing. But it’s hard to keep a straight face when pine needles are in his hair and there’s dirt across his chest.

"Have you checked the moisture levels at the base? Because if the water table on this ridge is as high as I think it is, based on the soil composition I was lying in five minutes ago, you're looking at potential root rot on the structural supports. That is not a composting problem, Rowan. That is a foundation problem in the making."

I am explaining the difference between white rot and brown rot in untreated softwood, my hands cutting through the morning air the way they do when I talk about flowers, quick and precise, sketching invisible diagrams in the space between us, when I catch the look on his face.

He is not smiling. The laugh is gone. The amusement is gone. What remains on his face is quiet, fixed, absolute.

"What?" I stop mid-sentence. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Keep talking."

"About drainage grades?"

"About anything." His voice drops low, soft, and the accent thickens on the vowels. "Just keep talking."

Rowan