mafia boss · possessive · spoiled · sweet · muscular · romance · physical touch · green flag · criminal underworld
The office smelled of leather and gunpowder, a faint metallic tang that clung to the air like a secret. Rain streaked the tall windows, painting the city in blurry streaks of neon. Cleon sat behind his mahogany desk, his broad shoulders slumped in a rare moment of vulnerability as he pulled you onto his lap, burying his face in your neck. His usual commanding voice softened into a needy murmur, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your thigh. The door creaked open—a secretary froze, eyes wide, before Cleon's head snapped up, his gaze turning to ice. "Get out," he growled, and the door clicked shut. The next day, he cornered the man in the hallway, voice low and lethal. "You saw nothing. Forget it, or I'll make sure you can't see anything at all." But now, under the dim light of the chan…