Ivory Ashes - A Mafia Romance
My new boss is gorgeous, arrogant, and filthy rich.
The only problem?
He doesn't know he's also the father of my baby.
Six years ago, I was supposed to get married.
But the night before the wedding, my groom-to-be showed me sides of himself I'd never seen before.
I might've died in that hotel room...
If Mikhail Novikov hadn't burst in to save me.
Handsome, strong, capable knight in shining armor-sign me up, right?
WRONG.
Because Mikhail wasn't just the hero I never knew I needed...
He was also way more dangerous than I ever could've known.
But for one night, I let myself do something I never should've done.
It was worth it-several times over, if you catch my drift.
In the morning, though, I did the reasonable
I RAN.
For six years, I keep running.
Until I walk into work one day, and find my new boss waiting in my office.
Guess who?
And guess what he does when finds out about our baby?
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Chapter 4
I want him to say something. I want him to talk dirty. Tell me I'm beautiful. Hell, call me a dirty slut. Just give me something.
But he is the same stoic, detached Mikhail I've seen only in passing for the last six months. Except now, he's sliding his thick middle finger inside of me.
"Oh my God." I arch my back, my head lolling against the mattress.
Mikhail is working his finger into me with an aloof professionalism that I am not in any way matching. He's calm, cool, and collected-I'm an absolute fucking mess.
I moan, rolling my hips to take more of him. I need more. I reach down and grab his wrist. I'm prepared to fuck myself with his finger if I have to.
But before I can, he pulls out of me.
I start to sit up, my body pulsing helplessly around nothing, my mind whirring as I try to come up with the world's least-prepared, most-convincing argument for why he should always be inside of me, starting, like, rightfuckingnow. Then Mikhail takes my wrist and pins my arm to the mattress above my head.
Belatedly, I register that he has unzipped his pants. That's probably why he let go of my wrist. To get himself ready.
Then my logistical thoughts burn up like space junk entering the atmosphere as Mikhail enters me. He presses his cock to my throbbing pussy and slides in.
"Big," I gasp. Sometime in the last six months, I must have lost my filter. Sometime in the last six seconds, I lost the power of speech.
But I'm not wrong. Just the head of him feels like too much.
Also, weirdly, not enough.
His fingers dig into the soft curves of my hips as he braces me. He holds me still as he fills me in a relentless, heady stroke.
"Better than I imagined," he rasps, sliding deeper inside of me.
Somewhere in the distance, a record scratches. Mikhail imagined this? Me? Us?
I don't have the neurons to process that. Not when I'm already at the brink of physical overwhelm processing the way he's stretching me. The way I've never been this full. The way people write songs about sex like this and here I am, having it, with Mikhail Novikov.
The brother of the man I was supposed to marry.
This is not the way I thought tonight was going to go.
I lift my hips and we fall together at a new angle. I clamp down around him. And Mikhail grunts.
My vision is blurring, but I look up at him. He's over top of me, granite jaw clenched. His lower lip is curled between his teeth. His brow is furrowed.
Testing a theory, I tighten around Mikhail again.
He growls and drives into me harder. His hand is wrapped so tightly around my wrist that my fingers are going numb. I send a silent thanks out to the editors of Cosmo for being a girl's best friend and encouraging me to add in a few sets of Kegels after yoga. Then I do it again.
"Don't," he warns.
He's looking at me. The ice in his eyes is everywhere now. It's spreading. His entire expression is frigid despite how hot he is between my legs.
My body flutters around him. Seeing Mikhail Novikov hovering over top of me is almost enough to push me over the edge.
"Don't what?" I gasp.
He slams into me, his weight pressing against my clit. "Don't move."
"I'm not."
He fixes me with a look that says he knows better. He knows what I'm up to.
Mikhail is a man who likes to be in control. Color me shocked.
"You're the one who told me I shouldn't be anyone's pawn," I remind him. Then I clench around him again.
I'm still holding tight when he jerks out of me. Before I can react or beg for forgiveness, Mikhail shoves my thighs wide and drops to his knees.
The moment his tongue delves into me, I realize the dangerous position I'm in. He could leave me like this, aching and needy. I'd probably go mad with wanting him. God, I bet he'd love that. Sick, cruel bastard.
"Is this your kink?" I rasp, grabbing a fistful of his hair. "Are you into edging until I combust?"
He doesn't respond. It's probably hard to talk with his lips wrapped around my clit, his tongue flicking at every sensitive part of me until I'm grinding against his mouth.
This sure doesn't feel like edging.
He drives a finger into me again and I cry out. "Mikhail!"
He growls in response and that vibration is all it takes. I explode in a mess of gushing tremors that I'm way too far gone to be embarrassed about. I pull on his hair and drive my heels into his back as an orgasm more powerful than anything I've ever felt tilts my planet off its axis.
His tongue slows, lapping at me as my legs tremble over his shoulders.
When he pulls back, his lips are slick. His hair is sticking up where I dug my fingers in. He is gloriously disheveled and I can't even bear to look at him.
I stare at the ceiling instead. "Was that my punishment?"
"No." He pushes my legs aside and they fall open around his waist. His erection pushes against my opening. "I wanted to know what you taste like before I fill you with my cum."
I'm drained. Spent. Used up and discarded.
Then he slides in me to the hilt and I'm back.
When he presses his thumb to my clit, I might as well be one of those emergency flashlights with the hand cranks. Every time Mikhail touches me, I light up. My lust could power a lighthouse. A beacon. One of those spotlights outside of the circus.
Come one and all, and witness never-before-seen heights of sexual arousal!
"This can't be real." I lift my arms over my head because I'm not sure what to do with them otherwise. I'm fully out of my body.
Until Mikhail uses his other hand to gather up my wrists. He holds them firmly while he fucks me.
"Please..." I whimper. I don't even know what I'm asking for.
He shakes his head. "Not yet."
Tears are forming in the corners of my eyes. I need to come right now. What could he possibly be waiting for? What could feel better than this?
I'm not sure if I said all of that out loud or if Mikhail is as deep in my head as he is my pussy, but he responds.
"I want to finish on your chest. Your stomach. Your ass. I want to paint you like you're mine." He growls again, slams home in me again and again. "But you're so fucking tight..."
I clench around him, the rumblings of another orgasm taking hold. I drag my hand down the flat plane of his stomach. "Later. Do it later. Next time."
We'll do this again, won't we? Several more times. We have to. This can't be it.
Even if this is it, I want what he promised. I want him to finish inside of me.
I don't want him to pull away.
He tips his head back, the long column of his throat strained as he drives in and out of me again and again.
I fist the front of his shirt. I'm lowkey dying a little bit at the fact that this is the best sex I've ever had in my life and he didn't even take off his shirt. "There, Mikhail. Right-Don't stop."
He looks down at me and for one fleeting second, I see him. The real him. The heat in his eyes. The fire burning beneath the surface.
The iceman has an inferno raging inside of him.
In a flash, it consumes us both.
I cry out as Mikhail roars, twitching out a release deep inside of me. Distantly, I recognize what he's saying. The name he's calling out again and again. My name.
Viviana.
We come down together, panting and slicked with sweat. Mikhail collapses on top of me, his heavy weight pressing me comfortably into the mattress. Then he rolls away, tucks himself back into his pants, and stares up at the ceiling.
I want to know if he's thinking the same things I am, but I actually don't know what I'm thinking. My mind is a mess.
Will Trofim come back for me?
Am I going to marry Mikhail?
If I do, will my father approve? I know far too well what happens when he doesn't.
Questions and possibilities chase each other around my head, circling until the warmth has leached out of my limbs and I'm shivering and sore.
I look over and Mikhail is still next to me, his eyes closed. His breathing is deep and even... sleeping.
Fuck knows he earned a nap.
So have I-but what happens when we wake up?
I hear Mikhail's voice in my head. You should leave while you still can.
Carefully, I slide off of the bed. Evidence of what we did is sticky between my legs, sliding down my inner thighs, as I tug on a pair of jeans.
There's no time to clean up. No time to make myself presentable.
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9.6
In the two years after I married Daniel Carter, my private photos had gone viral nine times, and Daniel had been taken into custody ten times.
Because every time his mistress, Emily Morgan, was unhappy, she would leak my private photos all over the internet.
I, Claire Parker, never let it slide. I reported every shady business Daniel was involved in and personally sent him behind bars.
That lasted until an unexpected kidnapping. I took a bullet for him, one aimed straight at his heart, and he shielded me beneath his body, taking the brunt of the explosion for me.
After we survived, the man who had always been so cold-blooded knelt before me, his voice hoarse beyond recognition.
"Honey, let's leave the drama behind. I just want a peaceful life with you."
Right in front of me, he ordered his men to send his mistress out of Northhaven and never let her appear before him again.
In the third year after we reconciled, I carried my eight-month pregnant belly and brought him lunch.
But on the way there, I was hit by a car. The hospital issued three critical condition notices, yet they still could not save the baby.
Daniel rushed over, but he did not even spare me a glance. Instead, he pulled the woman who had hit me and her child into his arms, soothing her in a low voice.
"Don't be scared. I'll protect you and the child."
Only then did I realize that the woman who had hit me was the very mistress he had sent away three years ago.
When I demanded an explanation, Daniel brushed it off as if it were nothing. "She didn't do it on purpose. Don't take it out on her and her son. You can have a baby another time."
At that moment, I finally understood. They had gotten back together long ago.
I looked at him and nodded. "Don't worry, this will never happen again."
8.6
I was the untouchable Mafia Queen, but my reign ended in the blood-soaked depths of a damp dungeon.
My half-sister, Kelsey, drove a rusted, sharpened spoon into my chest, screaming about the unfairness of fate.
In my past life, my father sold me to the ruthless Don Dante Blackwell as collateral to pay off his debts.
To survive, I took a black-market fertility drug, birthed his heir, and clawed my way to the throne through sheer ruthlessness.
But in the mafia world, a pregnant woman isn't a queen; she's a walking target.
I survived countless bombings and poisonings, only to be betrayed and slaughtered by my own family.
Until my last breath, I couldn't understand. I had sacrificed everything to secure our survival in the empire. Why did my blood and tears only earn me a rusted spoon to the heart?
Opening my eyes again, I am seventeen, sitting in my father's drawing room.
Two black velvet boxes sit on the mahogany table.
Kelsey greedily snatches the box containing the fertility drug, her eyes gleaming with feverish triumph.
"I'll take this one, Papa."
She thinks she is stealing my golden ticket to the crown, completely unaware that she just chose a death sentence.
I lower my gaze, letting my eyelashes mask the cold, lethal amusement pooling in my eyes as I take the remaining box.
Inside is the detailed psychological profile of the Don's dead fiancée.
This time, I won't be a breeding mare fighting off assassins. I will dissect the devil himself.
8.8
I am the best esports jungler in the league, but I've been hiding a severe wrist injury just to keep my team alive in the semifinals.
Right in the middle of the crucial tie-breaker game, our mid-laner deliberately walked into the enemy team and died without casting a single defensive spell.
He was match-fixing for offshore betting sites, throwing away our entire season for a massive payout.
Because of his betrayal, we had to sub in two terrified rookies, and we were absolutely slaughtered. The stadium crowd booed us out of the arena. The internet exploded with pure vitriol, trending hashtags calling me a washed-up fraud who hid on the bench to save my own stats. The media demanded I retire immediately. My physical therapist gave me a grim ultimatum: my shredded nerves only allow me four hours of playtime a day before my right hand completely locks up.
I destroyed my own body for this team, only to be sold out by a coward and crucified by the very fans I bled for. Why should my legacy end in total disgrace because of someone else's greed?
I refuse to step down. I forced the traitor out, ignored management's safe roster choices, and locked my eyes on the most toxic, universally hated streamer on the platform.
"He's a walking PR nightmare," my coach warned.
I don't care. He is an arrogant, unhinged killer in the game, and I am going to make him mine.
8.7
Explicit 18+ | Reader Discretion Strongly Advised
Dark themes, noncon/dubcon, extreme kink, power imbalance, group dynamics, knotting, overstimulation, and possessive claiming ahead.
A brutal omegaverse world. Warring packs. Rare silver-eyed omega Kai Voss lives hidden until a midnight raid destroys his safety.
The most feared triad captures him: Thorne Blackwood, a pierced sadist who pushes limits; Aurelius Voss, the volatile second, his knot pulsing with hunger; Cassian Reyes, the silent, amber-eyed observer whose fixation vows complete ownership. Dragged to their mountain den, Kai becomes their prize.
Defiant and sharp-tongued, Kai resists every command. His body betrays him with slick, aching need. On the first night, the alphas take him, one by one, then together. They stretch him past reason. Knot him impossibly. Fill him until his rim thins visibly. Slick eases the searing burn into shattering pleasure.
"Room for one more?" Thorne growls, forcing his pierced length beside the two already locked inside. He drags across sensitive spots until Kai arches, tears falling, his body yielding as omega instincts beg for more.
Three cocks locked and throbbing, owning him entirely.
"Fuck, he's taking us all," Aurelius groans.
Cassian watches silently, eyes blazing, plotting the next step to remake Kai forever.
Raw conquest becomes unbreakable obsession: relentless heats, punishments blending pain and ecstasy, jealous rivalries over cries, rare tenderness binding possession deeper.
Three ruthless alphas pursue the forbidden, shattering their defiant omega until he is stretched wide, ruined, reborn in their image. Relentless desire shows no mercy: tight entrances forced open, rimmed raw by impossible girths, slick-soaked and pulsing under unyielding ownership.
Hide and read in secret. Once the story begins, escape is impossible. Squirm. Ache. Hunger for every page.
DON'T BLAME ME WHEN YOU CAN'T STOP READING ALL 150 CHAPTERS ⚠️🔞‼️
7.1
For seven years, I was the architect of my fiancé's criminal empire and the strategist behind his every move. I was Dante Gallo’s unofficial Consigliere, his partner in everything but name. Tomorrow, I was finally supposed to marry him and take my place as the queen to his throne.
But on the eve of our wedding, a single text message sent by mistake detonated my life. It was a photo from Dante, showing a platinum wedding band on his hand. The message read: “Married this morning. She’s safe now.”
My gaze fell to the engagement ring on my own finger. It was the identical band, just smaller. The engraved initials ‘D.I.’ didn’t stand for Dante and I. They stood for Dante and Isabella—his childhood sweetheart. My entire relationship was a lie; I was just a shield to protect his one true love.
He dismissed my discovery as a "tantrum." Then, his new bride began taunting me, sending a picture of them tangled in bedsheets with the caption: "Loser." They expected me to break. They thought I would shatter.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were. I forwarded the picture to Isabella’s fiancé, a man far more dangerous than Dante. "Your fiancée is in Suite 8808 at the Grand Hyatt," I told him. "I'll meet you downstairs. We're going to crash their party."
8.5
went to sleep a nobody. I woke up a Queen.
One night I was just a broke, exhausted college girl. The next, I opened my eyes in silk sheets, with strangers bowing and calling me Luna Queen. The face in the mirror is mine. The body is mine. But the life isn't. The bruises on my wrists tell a story I don't remember, and the King I'm bound to doesn't love me-he loathes me.
They whisper that his mistress rules the palace. They say the Queen was weak. Silent. Broken. But that was before me.
Now I must survive a palace that wants me dead, a King whose touch burns as much as it scars, and a kingdom waiting for me to fail. The old Luna Queen bowed to cruelty.
I am not her.
And if this King thinks I'll kneel, he's about to learn what a true Queen is made of.