The Hot Billionaire Mafia's Stripper

 Aldan Abbot, the First son of the Abbot family, a Mafia, a Self-made Billionaire and the owner of the INHERITANCE company, unhurriedly roams his fingers over the slender back- the appearance of which always delighted and pleased him. A slight touch, barely there, as soft as a cloud drifting across the early morning sky. He'd discovered that Angelica responded best to the hint of the sensation, as though the torment of being denied more pressure heightened her pleasure.

  She was such a wonderfully carnal creature, willing to explore passion and pleasure in all its forms. It was the very reason he sought her company.

  She was soundly asleep, not reacting to his subtle gestures, but she would be miffed if he took his leave without giving her a proper farewell. Gathering up her hair, with its hints of green that often made it seem as though it might ignite at any moment, he draped it over his shoulder, exposing the nape of her slender neck. Shifting his body so she was cradled beneath him, he pressed his hot, moist mouth to the ridge of her spine and began to leisurely travel downward. 

   Moaning low, she stretched languorously, like a feline lazing in the sun. "Mmm, I do enjoy the way you woke me up."

Her voice, lazy, raspy, sultry, resulted in him to harden swiftly and painfully. With his knees, he spread her thighs, opening her to him, and slid into her velvety haven. It was only here, when he could become lost in wicked feelings, that he was a master, that the world and all its disappointments subsided.

Welcoming him with a groan of enjoyment, she lifted her hips slightly, and he delved deeper. Now he was the one to moan, a growl really, low and throaty. This was what he needed, what he always needed. Hands gliding, fingers teasing, mouths devouring.

    Theirs was a historical ritual of writhing bodies, escalating sighs, and intense sensations. With a triumphant laugh, she bucked him off, straddled him, and claimed him. Even as he took her again, even as he caused her to cry out his name, he felt nothing beyond the searing press of flesh. Why the bloody hell couldn't he feel more-true enjoyment, immense satisfaction, contentment–instead of this bloody wasteland of lackluster emotion?

The room echoed with their grunts, their shouts, their cries. He knew how to touch, how to stroke, how to please, how to bring her the ultimate pleasure.

Even when she collapsed over him, he fought his own upheaval, staved it off as long as possible, until it consumed him, and came crashing around him.

  Panting, exhausted, breathing heavily, he lay beneath her. As always it was never enough. His legendary prowess mocked him, leaving him dissatisfied. Ah, the physical release was grand, but afterwards, he always experienced a keen sense of bereavement, of something amiss, something that he could wrap neither his head nor his heart around.

He was always left wanting more, but for the life of him, he couldn't define exactly what the more should be.

He knew only that for all her exquisite beauty,

she didn't provide it. But he also knew the fault resided with him, not her. He lacked something essential. It was the reason no woman had ever loved him.

As gently as possible, he eased her off him. Her green eyes lethargic, she gifted him with a contented curl of her lips, a cat that had lapped up the last of the cream. He pressed a kiss to her forehead before rolling out of bed.

   He needed to get out of here.

He gathered up his clothes from where they'd landed on the floor when she'd first ridded him of them hours earlier. It wasn't until he'd sat in the brown velveteen chair to put on his black shoes that she scooted to the foot of the bed and said, "Tell me, what's troubling you."

He peered over at her, now wrapped modestly in the red satin sheet. She swung her legs off the end of the bed and grabbed one post.

She gave the appearance of someone sitting on a swing, 

   "You've grown bored with me,” Angelica said succinctly before he could answer. Not that he would have. He was not in the habit of sharing anything that resided within him. He allowed only the outer shell to be available for her amusement.

Haughtily, making a great show of securing the sheet more tightly around herself, she walked to the window. "They say no woman can easily seduce you and can hold on to you, I wanted to be the woman that can hold on to you and prove them wrong,"

After tugging on his black shoe, and putting on his dress, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her waist, inhaling her fading scent mixed with the musky fragrance of passion he'd unleashed earlier. "I've not grown bored with you." He whispered seductively, getting close to her ear.

  "Then stay the night. For once, stay the night, Aldan."

He tucked his finger beneath her chin, tilted her head around, and took her mouth as though he owned it. Only when she turned and sagged against him, did he lift her into his arms and carry her to the bed. Setting her down gently, he drew the covers over her and gave a wicked chuckle.  "Not tonight."

As he was striding toward the door, she called out in anger.  "I hate you!"

Her words gave him no pause. He'd heard them before from others. The first time he was three-and-twenty. The words had pained him then, but never since. Why did women not understand that hate could not hurt if there was no semblance of love and affection? He's been with a lot of women of different sizes and characters, yet, he knows how to be disciplined, so no one can tie him down and control him, he's past that level.

She didn't love him. He knew that and accepted it.

She was as cold as he was. It was the reason they have sufficiently worked out, the reason he'd not yet grown bored of her.

 If she was been soft-hearted, they won't have lasted this long.

  Aspiring to come up with a way to communicate that he wasn't upset with her, he glanced back and barely said. "Tomorrow" Then he turned around. "What do you want from me?''  

He gave her a grin and a wink. “Something to match the green of your eyes I should think."