Chapter 9
Dante
O ne Hour Later
She kneels exactly where I expected her to.
Not looking up. Naked again.
Her hair is wild and hands loose. Thighs trembling. Mouth set in that stubborn pout I already dream about ruining.
I walk around her once. Twice.
She stays still. Breathtaking. A good girl when she wants to be. “You broke the rule,” I say quietly.
She lifts her chin but keeps her eyes downcast. “So punish me.” A hint of a brat in there. She’s cute, my chaos-baiting thief.
I smile, feeling the fire of her gaze even without looking into her eyes.
“No.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You want punishment. That’s too easy. You want the guilt. The burn. The righteous pain.” I stop in front of her. Tilt her face up and yep, blue lightning, gorgeous and deadly. “But what you don’t know yet is how devastating mercy can be.”
Her breath shudders and for a moment, she looks utterly panic-stricken. Confused. My gut clenches. I release it with a breath.
Release her, pace back to sit in the armchair across from her. Unfasten my belt and whip it free. Leave it draped on my thigh—just a threat. “Do you crave some relief, Little Dahlia?”
On cue, her eyes blaze. She thinks I haven’t noticed how that adjective riles her. How not-so-silently she plots retribution for the slight.
Anticipation simmers, alien and delicious. When was the last time I craved like this? Felt this transcendental calling?
Never.
But she’s good—if not great—at compartmentalizing. Or her hunger is greater. Either way, my question concentrates her. Her eyes return to the belt. A tremor seizes me. How I wish I could test the edges of her pain but not tonight. Not this soon. I haven’t even tested a single limit yet.
“Answer me, Dahlia. It’s not a trick question.”
Her nostrils quiver. “So what if I do? Your baiting is getting old.”
“The words you want, are ‘yes please, sir’ or ‘no, thank you, sir.’”
Mutiny reigns, bright and beautiful. Then her thighs tremble again. Her chin drops a fraction and she exhales. “Yes. Sir.”
“Good girl. For that, I’m going to let you touch yourself tonight,” I say softly. “But only under one condition.”
She narrows her eyes. “Which is?”
“You don’t come unless I say. If you do, I’ll lock you in this room. Deny you for days .”
Her cheeks flush. Her thighs squeeze. She’s so wet I can see the shimmer of her slick pussy from here. Smell her beautiful musk.
My cock fills, throbs, as hunger rips a wider chasm within me.
“I won’t beg,” she whispers.
“You already have,” I murmur. “But not with words.” I motion with my hand. “Lie back. Open wide. Show me.”
She hesitates. Then obeys.
“Wider. I know how flexible you are, my pretty little cat burglar. I’ve watched you get in and out of some impressively tight spaces.”
“How?”
He smiles. “Do what I ask and I’ll tell you.”
She eases back completely on the soft leather mat on the floor.
Legs spread. Face flushing with self-consciousness, yes.
But also with arousal. She’s been on edge since last night.
I’m mildly stunned she didn’t attempt to alleviate it in between attempting to hack into every electronic device she could find in the apartment.
Slowly, one arm rises to rest above her head, unpractised and natural, the other already sliding down to her slit.
“Stop.”
A mingled whine and angry protest. But she waits.
“Say it,” I order. “Say who owns your pussy. Your pleasure. And look at me when you do.”
She swallows. Squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. Then. “You do.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Say it right .”
Her voice is barely more than a whisper. “You own my pussy, Dante. And my pleasure.”
“Not quite there yet.” I murmur, ignoring the pain pulsing through my balls. I’ve never been this heavy. This fucking ravenous in my life. I’ll need to take care of it tonight or I’ll be useless tomorrow.
“You own my pussy and my pleasure, Sir,” she breathes. Her fingers quiver against her neatly trimmed mons.
“Good girl. Now… play.”
“Tell me how first, Sir.”
I curb another smile. Even horny and desperate, she craves knowledge. “I hacked your trusty little drones. Every time you turned them on, I got a ringside view.”
A wince. Disappointment in herself. “Fuck.”
Her fingers flick with irritation.
“I hope you’re not going to take out your temper tantrum on my pussy, Dahlia,” I warn softly. “Because there will be punishment for that. One I guarantee you won’t like.”
She stops a whisper away from her labia. Breathes in. Out. In. Then she tries again. Light circles at first. She gasps at her own touch.
It’s beautiful.
Raw.
And I don’t say a word. Not for long minutes. Not while she writhes and bites her lip and chokes back moans.
I let her build close. So close .
Until her hips buck and her breath gets ragged. Until her clit puffs up, full and eager.
“Stop.”
She whimpers. Freezes.
I rise and walk over. Kneel beside her. Slide two fingers between her thighs and find her clit.
Just one stroke. She jerks.
“No,” I murmur. “Not yet.”
Her body’s screaming for it. But her eyes? They’re wild with need.
“I want to come,” she whispers. “Please.”
My cock throbs. Still, I wait. Drag my fingers alongside her clit but not quite touching it. Teasing. Edging. Her nipples are sharp points that beg for my lips. For the punishing twists of my fingers. So fucking beautiful.
Her eyes flutter shut. “Please.” Her voice breaks.
“You may come,” I say softly. “But only if you thank me for denying you.”
“Thank you for making me wait, Sir,” she gasps. “Thank you for… owning me.”
“Claim your reward, baby. Come for me.”
A harsh cry and her body breaks apart under my fingers—desperate, keening, ruined .
I sip and lick at her lips as she flails beautifully on my mat, her pussy clenching, clenching, growing wetter with my strokes. Drenching me. Saturating me in my own need.
The urge to free my cock, sink in and ride the coattails of her climax is beyond overwhelming. Even the temporary high of licking her cum off my fingers feels like a breaking point.
So I tug my hanky from my pocket. Wipe it off. Then I kiss her throat.
And whisper: “Tomorrow, you’ll start earning your way out.”
Dahlia
Dante doesn’t let me sleep in.
He wakes me before dawn with a command in my collar—turns out it’s electronic, the bastard—and a single word vibrating through the device like silk-wrapped steel.
“Up.”
I jerk awake, disoriented and aching in places I shouldn’t be.
By the time I stumble out of bed and find the oversized walk-in closet, he’s already laid out what I’m supposed to wear.
Black pants. Slim, tight. A sleeveless blouse in sheer ivory silk with nothing to hide under it. No bra. No underwear. Just my skin and the cool air and the weight of his gaze when I step into the main room, trying not to cross my arms over my chest like a self-conscious coward.
He doesn’t comment.
But his jaw tightens. His eyes drop to my nipples, hard and visible through the fabric, and something hungry and savage glints in his gaze before it disappears behind that smooth, terrifying composure.
“This is day one,” he says. “Today, you learn how we work.”
We.
It’s the first time he’s spoken as if I’m not just a possession. As if I might matter to his goals.
But I don’t let myself feel anything like pride. Not with the way he stares at me. Not with the way he taps the tablet in his hand and displays the blueprint of the building we’ll be targeting. Rathe Tower. Obsidian Corp’s crown jewel.
“A test run on my building. You’ll get limited access,” he says. “Enough to set up the electronic scaffolding. No direct taps yet. No extraction. I want to see how you move. How you improvise.”
“And if I don’t play nice?”
He looks up, slow and deliberate, charcoal-gray eyes burning with something cold and deadly. “Then I teach you obedience. Again.”
My body flares with a memory—his fingers, his voice, the wicked precision of his denial. I flush. He sees it. Of course he sees it.
His mouth curves, and then he nods toward the worktable.
“Start here. Crack the gatekeeper protocol.”
I lean in. “Blind? No salt strings? No decoys?”
He tilts his head. “Did I stutter, Specter?”
Heat licks my spine. I want to fly at him, rip him apart with nails and words, but it’s been over a day since I was properly online, and dammit, I’ve got withdrawal symptoms in the worst way. And I have a feeling he knows that too.
I move to the terminal, hands already dancing over keys, diving deep into encrypted net-structures. And I feel it the moment I brush the ghost of a backdoor—custom coded, tangled in his fingerprints.
He wants me to see it. Just enough to bait me.
My jaw clenches. I don’t take the bait.
Yet.
Over the next three days, Dante pushes me hard.
There’s no rhythm, no comfort zone. One minute, we’re side by side parsing security strings and brute-forcing obsolete defenses.
The next, he’s dragging me into the playroom for lessons I don’t even realize I’m failing until I’m gagged, wrists bound behind me, pulse hammering as he whispers, “You broke posture again. That’s ten minutes kneeling, no speaking, hands on your thighs. Eyes down. Learn your place.”
I hate how fast I learn it.
But I hate even more how my body loves it.
He never fucks me. But his hands… God. They’re everywhere.
Rough and soft.
Demanding and patient.
Exploring and withholding until I ache in ways I don’t have names for. ?He teaches me the freedom to strip on command without protest.
How to ask—properly—before touching myself.
“You’ll earn every goddamn stroke,” he growls one night, his mouth inches from my cunt as I tremble, sweat-slicked and leaking onto silk sheets I’ve stained with my shame.
“Please,” I gasp. “Dante—please?—”
And I hate myself for how much I enjoy the taste of my own begging.
The fourth night begins like the others: with silence.
But tonight, the silence is heavier, charged with anticipation.