His Mafia Queen

A Gift

"Do I taste like pineapple?"

"Mmhmm. And since you drink so much juice, I'm wondering if you taste like it down here, too." He sits up, scoots me down so I'm fully lying on my back, and cups my pussy.

"You'd better check," I say in a soft whisper.

And he does.

He slides his hand under the silky fabric — it's nice and loose, giving him easy access — and skims his fingers over my slit. He teases me for a while, until I'm begging for it, actually nearly sobbing I'm so ready to orgasm.

"Not yet," he whispers.

Then he slides a finger inside and starts to move it in and out. "You know," he says in a slow voice, "I bought you another present."

I can barely concentrate on what he's trying to tell me. "Oh?"

"I'm going to stop for a second." He does, but not before one last swipe of his fingers against my clit, causing my skin to feel electrified.

I watch, whimpering and frustrated, as he goes to the nightstand drawer and extracts a pink device that looks like a teardrop. One end is almost in a perfect point.

"What's that?" Even through the fog of my neediness, I'm curious. I reach out and squeeze the end. It's obviously an expensive silicone toy.

"It's called a pinpoint vibrator. I went to a sex shop yesterday and picked it out."

I try to imagine Gabriel and his broody demeanor in a sex shop, and grin. "How does it work?"

"Well, according to the kind gay man behind the counter, you turn it on like this." He presses the side of the device and it hums almost silently. He touches it to the inside of my thigh and the vibration is surprisingly powerful.

I waste no time in pushing my shorts down. Gabriel laughs as I also strip off my top and arrange myself spread-eagled on the bed.

"Okay, I'm ready."

"Oh my God, I love you." He kisses my nipple, then sucks on it, all the while trailing the vibrator closer to my pussy.

He lifts his head and stretches out next to me. "So it's supposed to work like this."

He steers the longer end of the vibe to my clit and I gasp. This is no cheap toy like mine. This is moving in small, pinpoint circles around my clit.

"Apparently, it's supposed to allow for multiple orgasms. Let's give it a try."

I'm not listening because I'm ready to detonate. He lightly presses it to the side of my clit, taking me higher and higher until I'm screaming out his name and coming hard.

"What the hell was that?" I pant.

He hands me the vibrator to inspect and unbuttons his shirt, then shoves his pants down. All of our clothes end up on the floor, and I end up on top of him, riding his hard cock and giving myself two more exquisite orgasms, both in my clit and vaginally.

Now weak from my three releases, I whimper and let my eyes roll back in my head. He sits up and fucks me in that position, using my body to grind against his. I'm just his fuck doll now, but I don't care.

"Take it all, Riley. I know you can. Fuck harder. That's it."

I hold on while he squeezes my ass, moving my hips into his.

"You're mine. All mine. You know that, right?" he growls.

"Yes," I manage to pant out.

"Say it."

I do, over and over.

"I'm going to fill you up with my cum now. Is that what you want?"

I say yes, and he does, exploding into me with a long moan. I feel boneless and collapse against him. Thank goodness he still has some stamina because he's holding me up with his strong arms.

"My puss," I whimper in a mock dramatic tone.

He gently rolls me to my side and pulls out. "What? Did I hurt you?"

I shake my head dreamily. "It's still pulsing from all those orgasms and all that... dick. How am I going to walk after that?"

He dips his head, burying it against my breast, shaking with laughter.

* * *

Hours later, after falling back asleep and then eating a late lunch at Gabriel's, it does hurt to walk up the two flights of stairs to the newsroom. My leg muscles feel like I've been doing squats, and even my pussy feels uncharacteristically sore, like I've been riding a bike.

My hungover feeling still lingers or maybe that's my general exhaustion from this morning's sex. Regardless, I need to put on a brave face and do this night cops shift.

Even though this was the beat I'd been assigned to when I was a rookie reporter, I didn't mind it. At five, most of the newsroom clears out, except for an editor and a photographer. I'm thrilled to discover that Brynn's working tonight, and so is Helen, one of the editors I like the most.

If it's quiet — meaning if there's no crime to chase — I'll be able to write my piece on Catherine's gallery. Mostly, I'm just here in case something terrible happens, like a plane crash, or the mayor dies unexpectedly, or one of the city's famous NFL players is arrested for DUI.

Nobody expects much from the night cops reporter.

Brynn stops by my desk and together with Helen, we make plans to get pizza delivered to the newsroom.

"It's a date," Brynn says. "I have to run to a quick assignment, but I'll be back well before the pizza comes at seven. I can't wait to tell you about the bodyguard."

She breaks into a badly off-key Whitney Houston song, and I laugh. Maybe she had hooked up with Gabriel's bodyguard. I wonder if he knows this. I'll ask him later; I know he's about to head to a business dinner somewhere in the city.

I busy myself with starting the story on Catherine, while the police scanner crackles every so often. It's the way we keep tabs on where the cops are, a tool that's totally legal but somehow seems like it couldn't be. There's a second scanner near Helen's desk, too, but she keeps the volume much lower.

Pecking out a few paragraphs, I read and re-read them, then erase them. This is going to be harder than I thought, writing about her. Not helping matters is the fact that I feel warm, almost feverish. I go to the bathroom as an excuse to pace around the now-empty office, and I wave at Helen as I go — she sits all the way on the other side of the room.

My pussy is still red and swollen from this morning, and it almost feels like I have a urinary tract infection coming on. Fuck my life. I've had them before, as has every woman on the planet. I groan, and vow to buy cranberry juice tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm going to pound a gallon of water. I thought I'd grown out of these damned infections in college.

I stop at the water cooler and drink a few cone-shaped cups, then amble back into the newsroom to get my water bottle. I'm only a few steps away from my desk when Helen comes rushing at me.

"Thank God you're back, I was looking all over for you."

"Why? What's going on?"

"There's been a shooting at a restaurant on Florida Avenue. I've already called Brynn and she's headed that way. It's some Italian place, here's the name." She rips off a piece of paper from a reporter's notebook. Casa Nostra is the name, which means Our House — also a play on Costra Nosa, I'm guessing. I scan the address. I'm not familiar with it.

"I'll make some calls right away to my sources."

She shakes her head and puts her hand on my shoulder. "No. You don't understand. It's a mass shooting, multiple casualties. Every cop car in the city is headed there now, the scanner's gone wild. You need to go there right now."