Chapter 22
Lucia
Aweek passes so fast that I barely remember what day it is, let alone how many days I have left to earn the funds I need to deposit into Edoardo’s account next week. I’m wading through water so high it’ll swallow me whole if I stop to breathe.
Every morning I wake up with the same resolve: Find a job, then use it to claw my way out of this mess. But every night I go to bed exhausted by the same disappointments.
The job hunt is going horrendously. I’m running out of places to look and excuses to convince myself that I’ll find a solution before everything falls apart.
I’m grasping at straws, and even they continually slip through my fingers.
An easy solution would be to accept the money Dante is offering for watching Camille. I need the funds, God knows I do, but taking it is admitting defeat. It screams that I can’t stand on my own two feet and that I’m once again dependent on a man.
Yet, at the same time, part of me thinks the opposite.
I’ve worked with Camille every day this week, and even though I’ve loved every second of our time together, the truth can’t be ignored.
I’d be earning real money if Dante hadn’t acquired all the strip clubs in the country like the massive expense was a minor inconvenience to force me to be his child’s nanny.
Dante is also adamant that the money is mine. Every evening, he leaves the three neatly stacked bundles on my bed as if I hadn’t returned them to him each morning.
His actions are confusing. The money screams, You can fight me all you want, but I’m not letting you drown, but his professional stance the past week says the opposite.
Watching Camille greet him each evening with explosive, unfiltered joy is the highlight of my day.
Her happiness clears away some of the pain in my chest, but it also makes me a little envious.
She gets to run into the safety of Dante’s arms, and I’m shunted to the sidelines like I’ll always have to pay for the privilege to be part of the team.
Though I’ve felt like an outsider on occasion the past week, the sexual chemistry between Dante and me is still palpable.
I can’t look directly at him without losing my balance.
I’m just no longer the only one throwing up barriers.
Dante is holding back too. His actions aren’t cruel.
More restrained, like he’s leashed himself so he won’t accidentally cross a line he drew in the sand.
Sometimes I wonder if he stopped trying because he achieved his goal. He wanted me to be Camille’s nanny. He was honest about that from the start. He got what he wanted, so maybe he doesn’t feel the need to chase anymore.
Maybe he doesn’t need me anymore.
We’ve talked a handful of times over the past week. Although he’s a natural flirt, our conversations are more an employee–employer dynamic than two people experiencing a mutual attraction so intense it burns.
I should be happy. This is what I wanted. No attachments means it’s easier to move on, but for some unknown reason, I feel miserable even contemplating that.
It could be because this month will be the first time I’ve missed the payment date Edoardo agreed to for me to have contact with Gabriele, but that’s taking the easy way out.
I’ve earned over thirty thousand dollars in less than two weeks previously.
I simply need to remember my place.
It isn’t at the table with men like Dante and Edoardo.
It isn’t even in the same realm.
When I flop onto my bed, too exhausted with confusion to stay upright, the bedding puffs up around me. With its waft comes the unmistakable scent of Dante’s cologne. It’s comforting and clean and clings to every surface of my apartment like an unwanted houseguest who refuses to leave.
I returned the money this morning before Camille even woke, but the bedding smells like he drenches the bundles in his cologne each night before delivering them, which means every night I fall asleep surrounded by his scent.
It’s made my dreams extremely vivid the past few nights. For the first time in years, I wake sticky from something other than nightmares.
Shamefully, I lift the bedding to my nose and inhale deeply. My pulse thuds in my neck when I catch traces of his cologne clinging to the stitchwork.
Before my head can warn my heart that it’s setting itself up for failure, I suck in another big breath. My actions are pathetic. I know this, and I hate myself for it, but my bedding is the closest I get to having everything I want, even with my greatest desires only a few feet away.
When I flatten the blanket over my face, Dante’s cologne is stronger than the lies I tell myself about not wanting him. It’s so powerful that with a few whiffs, I formulate the perfect way to untangle the knot twisted low in my stomach.
Self-care isn’t self-indulgent.
It’s self-preservation.
When I run my hand down my body, my shoulders arch and my lashes flutter against the scratchy material of the blanket. My panties are soaked, and the rush of ecstasy from the dampness on my fingertips pools more wetness between my legs.
I only sleep in a shirt since the high setting of Dante’s apartment heating flaps the curtain separating our spaces throughout the night. It blasts my studio with humid, sticky air that grows more stifling when I roll my thumb over my clit.
My control snaps when my sawing breaths double the intensity of Dante’s scent. He smells close, like he’s hovering above me, ready to enter me.
Breathless, I stuff two fingers inside my pussy while using my other hand to massage my breasts. The stretch isn’t painful since my fingers are nowhere near as girthy as Dante’s, but it still feels incredible.
I move them in and out, and within seconds, moisture coats them more with every thrust.
Pleasure skims over my skin as the tension of the past two weeks slowly fades. I part my lips and release the faintest moan, but for the most part, I stay quiet while strumming my clit in time with the frantic thumps of my heart.
My nipples bud as goose bumps race across my skin, but no matter how many times I twang my clit and squeeze the walls of my vagina around my thrusting fingers, the crest I’m seeking never arrives.
It’s there, sitting on the edge, but it’s hard going back to cheap back-alley tricks when you’ve been bedded by a master.
I keep going, though, desperate for release.
My thigh muscles grow taut as I toy with my clit. The pressure on the nervy bud is perfect, better than I could hope, but still fraudulent.
Well, that is until I remember how amazing it felt when Dante’s tongue caressed it.
Sighing, I thrust my head back and close my eyes.
Sparks hot enough to ignite a fire shoot from my midsection when I picture Dante hovering over me, watching every indecent stroke of my fingers.
I imagine the front of his pants tenting as his teeth catch his lower lip.
He’d battle not to take control, and his expression would be a mix of fury, pleasure, and unmistakable horniness.
“Please,” I murmur into the sticky, manufactured air when the thought of his desperateness has me pumping my fingers faster.
My clit throbs a dull, persistent ache of pleasure and heat, and I whimper. The sensation flowing through my core curls my toes and mists my skin with sweat. But the pressure feels wrong. The wave has formed but won’t crest no matter how hard I work my clit.
I groan as the ache between my legs fades, and the fantasy fueling my selfishness recedes with it. “No. Please. I need this. I’m close—”
My lungs stop accepting air when a voice I’ll never forget asks, “How close?”
I rip the blanket off my head before turning my eyes toward Dante’s voice. Although the “walls” of my room are closed, the curtains don’t reach the floor. Tan leather shoes peek out the bottom, rising from a shadow that’s too broad and imposing to be hidden by a thin sheet of cotton.
“Don’t stop,” Dante demands when I attempt to remove my hand from my panties. “Keep going.” Heat pulses through my legs from the desperation in his voice. He needs this as much as I do, like making me come, even without touching me, is as vital to him as his next breath.
“I don’t know if I can. I’m not sure I can make myself come.”
“You can,” he denies, stepping closer until the sheet melds to his body, and I see the effect my self-preservation act has had on him.
He’s as hard as a steel rod.
“I’ll guide you.”
Heat radiates through my chest when the curtains part enough that I sneak a peek at him through the gap. Yep. His eyes blaze with lust, and his expression is an odd mix of anger and need.
I don’t know how long he’s been standing there, but the grooves of his teeth marks in his lower lip announce it has most likely been as long as I’ve tried to come.
“Try pinching your clit instead of rolling it. Your body responds well to small snippets of pain.”
I toss my head side to side, but after only one pinch, more than my head stills.
My entire body goes rigid.
A single pinch and I’m on the brink of bliss.
A brutal pulse throbs between my legs when Dante says, “Now return your fingers to your pussy. Slowly, angelo.” He only tacks on his last two words when my eagerness rushes a process that should be relished.
“Good girl,” he praises when I follow his instructions to the wire.
As I pump my fingers in and out of my pussy, I use my other hand to pinch my clit. I don’t make a single movement without returning Dante’s hungry, perilous watch. I keep my eyes on him as the wave swells with such fury that I fear I might drown when it finally crashes.
“Oh…” I moan when the fabric of his trousers strains against his erection. I can see every mouthwatering inch.
Waves of ecstasy radiate from my clit to my nipples when Dante strokes the outline of his cock through his pants.
“Don’t stop,” I beg as the image of him stroking himself coils my womb so tight that multiple springs bounce free. I shake all over, and stars disrupt the amazingly erotic visual playing out in front of me.