Chapter 17 #3
Coming up behind me, he drags his knuckles over the curve of my shoulder, inviting goosebumps in the wake of his touch.
His voice is seductive, and his lips are warm on the shell of my ear. “Hungry?”
Not trusting my voice to speak, I shake my head.
“Mm.” He nips my earlobe, making me clench my thighs. “You were too nervous to eat on that night too. Do you remember it, darling?” He presses a kiss on my neck. “I do. I remember it like yesterday.”
Twisting away from his touch, I face him squarely. “Why did you bring me here?”
“It’s a special night.”
My tone is biting. “It’s not as if we’re sleeping together for the first time.”
“We’re doing it for the first time as husband and wife.”
Those two little words, husband and wife, only wound my insides up tighter.
He twirls a finger in the air. “Turn around.”
I wet my dry lips with the tip of my tongue. “Why?”
“So I can undress you.” He motions at the gown. “You can’t undo those buttons yourself.”
Shit. There must be fifty small buttons running along my spine. I shake my head, my pulse suddenly pounding in my temples.
“Turn around, Tatiana.”
When I only lift my chin in obstinance, he steps right up to me, putting us toe to toe, and bunches the skirt in his fingers. He works through layers of petticoats, scrunching roses and silk in his fists until he bares my legs.
Roughly, he cups a hand between my thighs. “Is this how you want it?” He walks me backward until my ass hits the island counter. “You want me to fuck you in your wedding dress?”
I’m unable to form words. I can only stare at him, this beautiful monster who sets my body on fire, scared of what he’ll find if he insists that I undress, and scared that he’s already found the truth in the arousal that soaks my underwear.
“Strip for me, Tatiana.” He just holds his hand there without moving it, the heat of his palm seeping into my skin and burning me up inside.
When I don’t reply, he pulls his hand from between my legs. Just as I’m about to utter a sigh of relief, he flips me around and bends me over the counter. He works that long skirt over my hips, drowning me in a mountain of white fabric.
“Is this how you want it?” He parts my thighs with his knee. “Right here, for anyone to see?”
I glance at the big windows. Memories of that first time rush into my mind, of me being spread out against that glass and him going down on me. It seemed so hot then. Now it seems vulnerable and too exposed. I can’t give him that much of myself again.
“Answer me, Tatiana. Do you want to take off your dress and let your husband make love to you between rose petals on the bed like a wife deserves to be treated, or do you want to be fucked on the counter, bent over like a slut?”
I can’t speak. There’s no right answer. I don’t want to be fucked like his wife or his slut. But my silence leaves the decision to him. So he makes it. He does what he always does by taking the lead instead of following the action.
“Very well,” is the only warning I get before he snaps the elastic of the white lace underwear and tears it off me. “This is your last chance, wife. Do you need a glass of champagne to help you relax?”
I don’t speak because I don’t want a repeat of that time he made so sweet for me. If this is supposed to be another night that will mark our lives forever, I don’t want to hold any good memories from it.
“Fine. Have it your way.” He caresses my naked globes with his palms, spreading me open.
“My dirty slut it will be.” His touch vanishes, leaving me cold.
“You better hold on.” The clank of his belt sounds and then a swoosh as I imagine him pulling it through the loops of his waistband.
“And don’t you dare let go until I’ve had my fill of your cunt. ”
He’s making a point by treating me like a slut, reminding me that I do have a choice, that all I have to do is give in.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Not just because of the scars on my back but also because I have to protect my heart.
I can’t allow him to break it and walk all over me again, which is exactly what will happen if I give in to his sweetness.
The bottom line remains that he doesn’t give a damn.
He just wants to win, but this is a war I won’t lose again.
A rustling of clothes sounds behind me. I turn my head to get a visual on what he’s doing, but the layers of white fabric obscures my view. The puffy skirt acts as a barrier between us, leaving me only with my sense of sound to guess his actions.
The scratchy sound of his zipper gives me a good idea of what will come next.
I must be the slut he claims me to be, because when the smooth, broad head of his cock nudges my opening, anticipation runs through me like an electric shock.
I turn even wetter, stretching my arms over my head and holding on to the edge of the counter on the other side as he told me to do because Dante never makes idle threats.
And a part of me wants that. I want the pain that comes before the pleasure.
I love how it burns away the guilt and leaves me raw and helpless, a different person I don’t know.
Just for a while, it lets my mind separate from my body, allowing me to escape from myself.
He teases me like that for a while, doing nothing but spreading me open between his hands and rubbing his cock up and down my slit, each time ending on my clit. He does that until I’m delirious with need, until I don’t even know my own name any longer.
“Dante, please.”
He enters me with a single thrust, digging his fingers into my ass cheeks and keeping me open while he pumps into me with a lazy pace.
“Dante.”
“Does my slut want more? Is this what she likes?” He brings his hand down hard on my left globe, making me yelp. “Yes, look at that, how it makes your cunt even wetter. You want more of that, don’t you?”
Pulling out, he leaves me empty.
I bite my lip to stifle a protest.
The swish that cuts through the air registers too late. Pain explodes on my backside, flames leaping into my skin. There’s no time to panic, no time to connect the present to the past. The pain comes too fast, searing my flesh and keeping me grounded in the moment.
My thighs clench as the burn fizzles out. In its place, need flares. I barely have time to prepare myself before the second lash lands between my legs. It’s much gentler, more like a caress than a punishment, and without meaning to, I widen my stance.
“That’s my girl.”
Dante’s praise goes straight to my head. I don’t want to be his wife or his slut. That’s when I realize the awful truth.
I just want to be his.
On a fucked-up level somewhere deep inside, I still want him to want only me.
That’s why I’m not moving. That’s why I hold on when he spanks me again and again until my ass is on fire and I think I may go crazy if something doesn’t happen.
I don’t know what I need. I only know the ache inside me stills when he fills me with his cock.
I hate that I want it. I hate it even more that the only thing that makes it better is the relentless way in which he drives into me.
I want to break the spell and destroy his hold on me, but all I’m doing is making it worse.
So I punish myself and make him take me harder, pushing back every time he pounds his groin against my burning ass.
I don’t have to use words to make him do what I want.
I just have to goad him. I just have to make him take more and do it rougher.
When he slams into me, I slam back harder. When he spanks my pussy, I push out my ass and offer him more. When he comes, I clench hard enough to milk him dry and pull him deeper. He’s growing hard inside me again before he has time to go soft.
We spend the most part of the night fucking.
He makes me come so many times with his mouth and fingers that I’ve stopped counting.
He comes in my pussy and then in my ass.
We do it all there on the counter, framed by the night and the city lights.
We never make it to the bed or to the memories of a different night.
If it means I have to let him fuck me until I’m raw, so be it.
When the sun peaks over the horizon, I’m unable to stand on my feet any longer.
My legs are shaking, and my ass is a mass of nerve-endings that smolder like coals.
Every part of me hurts, even the parts I didn’t allow Dante to touch.
He quickly got a handle on my game. The more I provoked him, the harder he went on me, trying to punish me into submission so I’d give up and stop.
It became a competition, both of us set on leaving here as the victor. As he’s still on his feet, looking as fresh as a daisy, I guess that makes me the loser. My only solace is that I didn’t give in.
I don’t even have it in me to argue when he lowers my underskirts and skirt and picks me up in his arms. He carries me to the sofa before sitting down with me in his lap.
The ice bucket stands in a puddle of water on the coffee table.
Condensation has dripped down the sides and gathered around it.
The image reminds me of wasted moments and lost time.
For some reason, a deep black hole opens up inside me as a different kind of grief consumes me, the kind that comes with regret.
Taking a bottle of water from the table, he unscrews the cap and holds it to my lips.
I drink because I’m thirsty. My ass hurts where it rests on his lap.
I’m still amazed that I didn’t freak out when he took his belt to me.
Maybe he cured me of that particular fear.
Not having the energy to fight him, I allow him to feed me tidbits of food.
He follows each bite up with a sip of water, telling me I need to keep hydrated.
Then he makes me lie on my stomach on the sofa and rubs arnica into my backside, reigniting the heat that burns like embers under my skin. When that’s done, he lifts me back into his lap and simply holds me, both of us still dressed in our wedding attire.
I must’ve fallen asleep, because when I open my eyes again the sun is high in the sky. I’m still cradled in Dante’s lap. He’s stroking my loose hair, which means he undid the bun. Indeed, the tiara and pins lie in front of him on the coffee table.
He smiles that sexy, disarming smile that exposes his dimple. “How are you doing?”
I sit up, scramble off his lap, and wipe the hair from my face. It feels as if I’ve been hit by a truck.
He gets to his feet and walks to the kitchen. “You’ll feel better after breakfast.”
I take him in. He’s removed the tie, waistcoat, and jacket, and he’s rolled up his sleeves. His hair falls in a sexy way around his face. His movements are lithe and self-confident. I’ve always loved how he never fumbles in anything he does.
While he goes through the fridge, I slip away and lock myself in the bathroom. As I can’t undo the buttons at the back of the dress myself, I have no choice but to rip them off, ruining the dress in the process. In a way, the act seems fitting.
I have a quick shower and find a robe behind the door that I pull on. When I get back to the kitchen, Dante is serving bacon and eggs onto two plates.
He puts the pan back on the stove and pulls out a chair for me at the table. “Sit.”
When my ass hits the seat, the lingering discomfort reminds me of what we’ve done. My cheeks heat, but I pretend not to be bothered.
“Eat up.” He takes a seat opposite me. “You need your strength.”
After last night? I’ll need more than a breakfast and the freshly squeezed orange juice he pushes my way to recover.
And then he drops the bomb. “We have an appointment with your brother in an hour.”