Chapter 22 #2
Dante is no longer stroking his cock through his pants. His erection rocks in and out of his circled hand, the droplet of pre-cum on the tip thickening with every grind.
“Keep your eyes open, angelo,” he demands when they slowly taper closed, my eyes naturally rolling, but I quickly return them to his gaze. “Fuck. You’re so fucking hot, angelo. I can’t wait to hear you scream my name when you come.”
I shiver at the actuality of his tone. It’s loaded with assuredness, and the excitement it inspires clusters between my legs.
His hand strokes up and down his cock as he absentmindedly inches closer, and I unravel more by the second.
In under a minute, I melt under the heat of his needy watch. As pre-cum drips from his cock, my shoulders meet and my mouth gapes.
“Oh god. I’m… I’m… I’m…” Full sentences are above me, and so is Dante. He stands at the foot of the bed, jerking his cock in rhythm to the thrums of pleasure darting through my pussy.
“Say it. Scream my name.”
My back arches as I squash my lips together to hold back the moan that will undo everything.
“No.”
“No?” His tone taunts me and makes me incredibly hot at the same time.
He ramps up the intensity by spreading his feet to the width of his shoulders and rolling his hips upward.
Every fiber in my body tingles as I drink in the flexes of his fat cock.
It looks angry, and it conjures up images of us ripping off our clothes and fucking hard and fast against the only window in my apartment, uncaring who may be watching.
“Please,” I beg when he moves near enough that the frantic movements of our hands collide with each thrust and grind.
A rumbling noise rolls up Dante’s chest as his eyes lower to the scant bit of material hiding my thrusting hand from his sight.
Pressure boils over when his dilated eyes confirm that he doesn’t need me to remove my panties to recall every detail of my pussy.
He knows every glistening drop coating my fingers and palm is compliments to him.
“So fucking pretty, angelo.” His eyes return to mine. “So fucking gorgeous.”
My nails dig into the mattress as fiery sparks shoot from my core. As my limbs uncontrollably shake, I sink into the mattress. My quest to stave off my next orgasm is fruitless. The tension is too much, and I’m swamped by its wave in under a second.
All the negativity in my body drains out before euphoria replaces it. I come with a moan, Dante’s name ripping from my throat.
“Fuck.” His one word is as breathless as my lungs. “Eyes, Lucia.”
The walls of my vagina clench around my frozen fingers as his demand doubles the strength of my climax. I love it when he uses my real name. It makes this seem more real than the dream I’m reluctant to wake up from every morning.
“Keep going,” Dante requests, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “Ride the wave.”
Pleasure rolls through my womb as I struggle to breathe, think, or move. I’ve never come for this long and hard. My climax uses every muscle in my body and makes me so lax that Dante drags me across the mattress without a peep seeping from my lips.
After snapping my panties from my body, he stores them in his pocket. The dig of his fingers in my thigh when he opens me, and the heaviness of his girthy head when he nestles his erection at the apex of my thighs, restoke the fire low in my belly.
I’m so caught up imagining how he’ll enter me slowly before destroying my insides with a cock too big to feel as good as it does that I don’t realize the knocks echoing throughout my apartment aren’t the throbs of my aching clit until Dante reaches for his gun.
Someone is knocking on my apartment door.
Although it’s late, it isn’t that late for Dante’s reaction. He acts as if the late-evening visitor is a viable threat that slipped under the radar of his security team.
“It’s probably Harris.”
Ignoring me, Dante moves fast.
Too fast.
“Stay where you are,” he murmurs, already moving toward the entryway with tension in his shoulders that twists my stomach.
I scoop up the blanket that started my self-expedition, my breath restricted, when he tugs on his trousers, then approaches the door, each step calculated. When he leans toward the peephole, every muscle in his body tightens. His spine straightens as something dark and heavy falls over him.
I can’t see his face, but I know whoever he’s about to converse with brings bad news.
His shoulders slump so fast that I feel its draft against my skin, and tension radiates off him in invisible waves. It fills the room and presses against my chest until it’s wedged next to my heart.
Even though I tell myself not to overthink it, my pulse stutters when he stores his gun in the back of his trousers and his hand lowers to the door handle. He opens the door enough to speak through, but not enough for me to see who’s standing there.
I don’t require seeing them to understand the situation. Dante’s low, clipped tone, which I’ve never heard before, reveals everything.
His caller knocked on the wrong apartment. They wanted 12A, not 12B.
“How did you get this address? And why the hell do you think it’s appropriate to show up at this hour?”
I can’t hear the reply. The voice coming through is too soft and muffled. But whatever they say causes Dante to still. His anger doesn’t fade, but something else slips beneath it, something that feels an awful lot like guilt.
When he glances back at me, I snap my gaze away and pretend I’m not terrified of what has made him so panicked.
A moment of silence lingers between us, tense and delicate.
Then he says, “Cici.” My nickname sounds starkly different on his tongue now compared to how it sounded earlier.
It’s tired and apologetic. “I know you’re not rostered on for tonight, but can you watch Camille for me?
” His tone is professional, but portions of unease create hairline cracks in the armor he’s endeavoring to resurrect.
“Something urgent has come up, and I can’t leave it until the morning. ”
I hesitate in replying. Giving him permission to walk out the door, even when every part of me wants to ask him to stay, is hard, but I nod anyway since it’s the right thing to do.
He briefly closes his eyes, exposing the exhaustion behind them, then twists back to face the interrupter.
“Wait outside,” he tells the person on the other side, his voice commanding.
When he closes the door, the walls slowly close in on me. Whatever is happening will pull him away from me in a way I’m not ready for and incapable of stopping.
I’m certain of it.
Mechanically, Dante collects the three bundles of money we’ve been serving back and forth for the past week from the chipped kitchenette counter. He places them at the foot of the mattress without acknowledging how my pulse flutters when their drop infiltrates the air with his cologne.
He delivers them as he’s done each night for the past seven days, then heads for the exit.
“Thank you for agreeing to watch Camille,” he says before he breaks through the threshold. “You will be well compensated.”
My reply tumbles out too fast, desperate and raw. “I don’t want your money.”
Dante freezes halfway out the door, his knuckles white as he grips the doorframe. I expect a brutish reply similar to what he gave in the diner last week, but he’s already shut down the fragile moment that might have existed between us if he had chosen me over the person outside.
He nods once, then leaves, the door slamming shut behind him.
My head screams at me not to follow. I don’t need to lower myself to his standards by snooping to unearth what he’s hiding, but my heart doesn’t listen.
Faster than a flash of lightning, I cross the apartment on shaky legs and peer through the peephole.
What I see knocks the air from my lungs.
Dante’s broad shoulders fold in as his hands slip beneath a woman collapsed on the floor. I can’t see her face curtained by dark hair, but when her lithe body melds into Dante’s, my stomach clenches.
He gathers her into his arms with a gentleness that feels both practiced and instinctive and then carries her toward the elevator the way a groom carries a bride across a threshold.
My throat dries as a million scenarios run through my head.
None of them are good.