22. TWENTY-TWO #2
He makes me wait, drawing out the seconds, letting my hips squirm beneath his.
I’ve been struck enough in my life to know his pressure has to be so carefully calculated, just short of bruising.
He won’t hurt me, but I am flooded with the overwhelming awareness that he can.
His searing lust for me is the only thing standing between me and an early grave.
And the painstaking care under which he forces me to fight for a full breath is making me so damnably wet.
I dig my nails into his shoulders. Dante moans, muscles twitching in response. His reaction only provokes me into clawing deeper.
When he releases my throat, my first breath is sweetly painful.
Touching one of his shoulders, he clucks his tongue. “Bad girl.”
My nails have marred his shoulders with little half-moons. Suddenly, I understand his sick joy in leaving fang marks upon me. For hours to come, a piece of me will be left behind as evidence upon his perfect body.
“I could have gouged you to the bone if you held on a bit longer.” My voice is still raspy. I touch my throat. “Feeling merciful?”
“I’ll be good tonight,” he answers. “Next time, I’ll make you beg. But tonight… I can’t wait any longer.”
His attention hones in on my lower body, and a wave of self-consciousness floods me.
No one has ever seen my naked body like this before.
No one. I can’t help but wonder how I compare to his past partners; if they’d been fitter, better groomed down there, more experienced. The latter is almost certainly true.
Oh God, there had to have been hundreds of partners before me. How can I possibly compare? It shouldn’t matter, but vulnerability knots my stomach all the same, and I clamp my knees together on reflex when his touch strays past my hip.
“Don’t,” he hushes. Kneeling at my feet, Dante nudges my legs back apart. “You’re beautiful. Every goddamn inch of you.”
His hand trails down my leg, strong fingers spread over the sensitive skin. His thumb brushes my entrance reverently, pulling a sharp gasp out of me.
“And seven hells, you’re wet,” he murmurs. “Already dripping for me. Fuck, Ariya.” Dante shudders out his next exhale, his crooked grin breathless and untethered—that barely contained restraint flashing again.
“Keep telling me what feels good,” he says. The raw, dark need on his features mirrors my own desperation.
I nod.
Say my name again, I beg silently. Say it until I’m sick of it.
Another brush of his hand over my clit, and I seize up, breathing shallowly as the sensation seizes me like lightning. I grind my teeth to keep from crying out from that alone.
“Have you touched yourself before?” Dante asks, his deep voice suddenly clipped.
I catch his eye, hesitating. “Yes.”
“Show me.”
The command sends a shock through me, but I obey, putting my hand between my legs the way I’d done in the blanketing darkness of my dormitory past midnight, when everyone else was asleep. But for the first time in my life, there’s no need to be quiet.
I throw my head back, working myself while Dante watches. The feeling of his stare burning into me sets the heat in me fully ablaze—that flash of approving appraisal, that impatient clench to his jaw.
I’m driving him crazy. Me.
He palms the side of my ass roughly while the other hand thrusts down the front of his pants to relieve some of the tension there, accompanied by a sharp groan through his teeth.
That spark of masochistic delight shoots through me again—pleasing him. Fuck, I’m sicker than I thought.
Dante lasts only a few minutes before he backs off the bed, standing at the foot of it.
He hooks his arms under my knees and yanks me to the edge, eliciting a yelp of surprise at how easily he moves me—like he’s just relocating a little coin purse.
I’m dizzy with anticipation as Dante lowers onto his knees, hands tight on my thighs as though it was physically painful for him to wait even a breath longer to devour me anew.
Impatient as ever. Though, this time I have no complaints.
His tongue drags along my inner thighs, peppering feather-light kisses and gentle bites in his path.
My entire body clenches again, moaning out a pathetic little noise.
I’m so fucking sensitive there, I’m practically seeing stars.
He’s teasing me, circling my clit—giving me everything but what I really want, what I’m waiting for.
I squirm, hands fisting the quilt, but his arms tighten around my thighs, forcing my patience.
“Dante…” I breathe out, a frustrated whine.
His chuckle rumbling between my legs nearly melts me. Then his tongue finally enters me, and I think my soul just about leaves my body. Nothing I’ve ever done to myself compares—not by miles.
“Oh—fuck!” I arch my back, his tongue moving along me with hot, skillful strokes.
I’m not sure the rain is enough to mask the noises that escape me this time.
Dante’s bruising grip can’t contain my writhing hips, and soon, I’m almost riding his face. I tangle a hand into his messy blond hair, gripping tight. I think of all the desiring glances I’ve seen people cast toward Dante as we’ve traveled, wanting him, imagining what it would be like.
But it’s me. He chose me, and tonight, he is completely mine.
And I’m his, I realize with another feverish exhale.
Dante releases his iron grip on my left leg, and his fingers join his mouth in sudden, delicate tandem.
I lose words for a moment, staring up at the curtained ceiling of the four-poster bed.
The raw, novel sensations entwining within me send bursts of sharp pleasure through me, almost painful in the ecstasy.
Can you die from pleasure? A ridiculous thought—yet at this moment, I feel like it bears merit.
A climax is mounting, hovering just overhead—but Dante pulls off me.
I nearly weep.
“Please…” I whine, barely recognizing the shiver to my own voice.
Dante leans over me, hand tangling into my hair, kissing me roughly.
“You taste better than any heaven,” he pants, and oh God, I can taste myself on his wet lips. “Fucking incredible. I could die happily between those pretty legs of yours.”
The air bites my bare skin when he pries himself off me again with a clipped, “Don’t move.”
I prop myself up on my elbows, watching as he takes a few steps back, and those skillful fingers move for the suffering laces at the front of his trousers. The knot comes undone, and he sheds the last piece of clothing barring us.
My breath hitches in my throat. He’s well-endowed, to say the least. Some of his arrogance almost starts to make sense.
A part of me still expects him to tease me for fully gaping at the first cock I’ve ever seen, erect at full attention as he saunters back to bed.
But no—there’s a patient, pleased kind of gleam in his gaze when he returns to me, pulling me higher on the bed like not touching me for more than thirty seconds was a war crime.
I’ve imagined this moment before–how he might grin and viciously tease me the way he’d done that night at our temporary camp. I never once considered that he’d be so shockingly tender as he notches himself overtop me, kissing my swollen lips to offer familiar territory.
My chest swells as I allow my arms to wind around his neck, claiming everything I touch. His body presses me down into the mattress, the delicious weight making my breaths strain just a fraction. Just enough to remind me I’m not dreaming, that this is happening.
When we part for air, Dante’s toned arms are caging me on either side of my head, his face still inches from mine.
It’s an achingly handsome face, and at this moment, I can’t remember why I’ve tried so hard to deny it.
His chin-length gold hair hangs like a curtain, the disheveled quality only making him look all the more like a fallen angel.
His erection is pressing against my entrance lightly, sending electric shivers coursing through me.
My heart jumps into a gallop as our eyes meet.
I know that look, the heated meaning behind it.
“I-I’ve never…” I stammer.
“I know.”