Filthy Mafia Boss

The mafia boss does not ask. He takes. And what he wants is the sharp-tongued assistant who keeps showing up in his Mayfair penthouse, rain dripping from her hair, her family's bankruptcy papers clutched like a shield against the things his voice does to her knees.

She tells herself she needs his protection. The money. The deal that will save everything. But when he pins her against the floor-to-ceiling glass and tells her exactly how she will pay, the heat between her legs betrays every lie she has ever told about control. His scarred eyebrow lifts when she argues. His hand wraps her throat when she moans. His commands are filthy, specific, and she hates that she obeys before he finishes speaking.

Each surrender leaves her wet and furious. Each punishment makes her beg for worse. The danger should send her running - his enemies in the shadows, the betrayal threading through his organization, the way he watches her sleep like a man already mourning what he will destroy to keep her. Instead she spreads her legs wider. Instead she mouths off just to feel his grip tighten, his breath hot against her ear, his growled promise that she will break for him and like it.

Her independence. Her family's last chance. The empire that feeds on weakness. None of it matters when he is inside her, when his thumb presses just there, when he makes her say please like she has never said it before.

The fire between them will consume everything. The only question is whether she burns first.