Chapter 28 #3
I've lost count of how many times Dane has taken me to the edge, only to pull back at the last possible second. My legs tremble uncontrollably, and I hang from the handcuffs, my wrists aching in the most delicious way. Sweat beads between my breasts, my entire body flushed and hypersensitive.
"You're fucking evil," I gasp as he withdraws his fingers once again, leaving me pulsing and empty. The whimper that escapes me is embarrassing, but I'm beyond caring.
"Evil?" Dane stands slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "I prefer... thorough."
He begins unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness, revealing inch by torturous inch of his muscled chest. The tattoo peeks out—'death before dishonor'—stark against his skin.
"Is this—" I swallow hard, watching as he shrugs the shirt off completely. "Is this a strip show or an interrogation technique? Because I'll tell you anything you want to know"
"Maybe both." His voice rumbles through me as he tosses his shirt aside. "You ready to confess yet?"
"To what?" I can barely focus with him standing there shirtless, all hard planes and battle scars. Jesus, the man looks like he was carved from stone.
"To how badly you want me inside you."
My laugh comes out more like a sob. "I think my current situation speaks for itself."
His hands move to his belt buckle, and goddamn if that simple motion doesn't send another flood of wetness between my thighs. The metallic clink as he pulls the leather through the loops might be the sexiest sound I've ever heard.
"How many times have I edged you now?" he asks, dropping his pants to reveal gray boxer briefs that do absolutely nothing to hide his massive erection.
"Seventeen thousand," I mutter, only half-joking. "I've died and been reborn at least twice."
Dane's laugh is low and dangerous as he steps closer, pressing his nearly naked body against mine. The contrast of his hot skin against my overheated flesh makes me hiss. His hardness presses against my stomach, and holy shit, how is he even real?
"One more time," he whispers against my ear, his hand sliding between us to cup me possessively. "Then I'll give you what you need."
"If you stop again," I warn breathlessly as his fingers find my swollen clit, "I swear to God I'll find a way to murder you with these handcuffs."
His eyes darken with something primal. "That's a risk I'm willing to take."
Dane drops to his knees again, and I can barely hold myself upright as his mouth finds me. His tongue is relentless, circling my clit and then sucking. After so many times being brought to the edge, my body responds instantly, rocketing toward release.
"Oh god, I'm—" The tension builds with frightening speed, my entire body tightening like a bowstring.
And then he stops.
I'm about to unleash every obscenity I've ever learned bartending in New York when Dane surges to his feet. In one fluid motion, he grips my thighs, lifts me , and thrusts into me with such force that my scream of frustration transforms into a cry of pure ecstasy.
"Holy fuck!" My legs instinctively wrap around his waist as he fills me completely, stretching me to the point of almost-pain. The handcuffs rattle against the bar, the metal cutting into my wrists as my body absorbs the impact of his thrust.
"This what you needed?" he growls, his fingers digging into my thighs as he holds me pinned against his body.
"Yes—Jesus—don't stop," I gasp, my head falling back.
He doesn't. He pounds into me with a primal intensity that should terrify me but instead has me spiraling toward the most intense orgasm of my life. Each thrust hits places inside me I didn't know existed, sending shockwaves of pleasure through my entire body.
"Been wanting to fuck you like this," he pants against my neck, "since the first time I saw you."
I can't speak, can't think. I'm nothing but sensation—the fullness of him inside me, the bite of metal at my wrists, the slick heat where our bodies connect. After being edged so many times, my nerves are live wires, every touch amplified to unbearable heights.
"Come for me, Lila," he commands, adjusting his angle to hit my clit with each thrust.
That's all it takes. The orgasm crashes through me with tsunami force, obliterating everything in its path. My vision whites out as wave after wave of pleasure pounds through my body. I'm vaguely aware I'm half-screaming, half-sobbing—as my inner muscles clamp down on him with bruising force.
"That's it," he growls, driving deeper. "Fuck, you feel amazing."
If this is death, just put it on my tombstone: Died getting railed by Dane Wolfe. Worth it.
DANE
I carry Lila to my bed, her body limp as a rag doll in my arms. Fuck, I might have broken her. The thought brings a satisfied smirk to my face as I lay her down on my sheets. Her wrists are marked from the cuffs—red bracelets of submission that make something primitive in me growl with approval.
"You still alive in there?" I ask, sliding in beside her.
She makes an unintelligible sound, something between a moan and a laugh. "Not sure. I think my soul left my body somewhere around orgasm number three."
I grab the small bottle of aloe lotion I stashed in my nightstand drawer. Preparation isn't just for military ops. It's for everything that matters. And she matter more than anything in the world.
"Give me your hands." My voice comes out gruffer than intended.
She extends both arms, wrists up, completely trusting. The marks are deeper than I'd planned. Something twists in my chest at the sight—not regret, but responsibility. I squeeze cool lotion onto my fingertips and work it gently into her irritated skin.
"Didn't think the big bad wolf came with aftercare," she teases, voice still breathless.
"There's a reason wolves lick their wounds." I bring her right wrist to my mouth, pressing my lips to each finger, tasting the sweetness of her skin mixed with the herbal bitterness of the aloe. "Every predator knows damage control."
I repeat the process on her left hand, methodical, deliberate.
Her fingers are delicate against my lips, a stark contrast to how roughly I'd handled the rest of her minutes ago.
The duality isn't lost on me... how we're all just savagery and tenderness wrapped in skin, waiting for someone who can handle both.
I pull her against me, feeling the dampness of sweat on her skin. Her hair spills across my chest like liquid copper, and I find myself stroking it without thinking. It's silky between my fingers, nothing like the rough world I usually inhabit.
The silence between us feels different now. Not empty, but full—like the calm after a storm when the air is charged with leftover electricity. I've never been a post-sex talker, but with Lila, I don't mind the quiet. It doesn't need filling.
"You promised to tell me about Juliet," she says finally, her voice careful, as if she's testing thin ice.
Something tightens in my chest. Juliet. My sister's name still feels like a knife between my ribs, even now.
"Yeah, I did." I continue stroking Lila's hair, finding the rhythm soothing. "Well… she was four years older than me. The golden child to my black sheep. In dad's eyes, anyway."
The words come easier than I expected, like blood from a wound that needs draining. It turns out that, with Lila, I don't mind post-sex talk either. Something about the weight of her against me makes the words easier to find, like she's grounding me to a reality I usually avoid.
"Juliet..." My voice falters, and I clear my throat.
"She got lost in the glitz of it all—the drugs, the endless parties, the 'right now' that never becomes tomorrow.
Cocaine was her poison of choice. She'd disappear for weeks, then show up at my door looking like death warmed over.
" I stare at the ceiling, focusing on a small crack so I don't have to focus on the memories.
"She married this Carvetti thug, real piece of work.
Angelo. Had mob connections that made my father's look like amateur hour.
I wanted to put him in the ground myself.
Still do, even though he's rotting in Rikers where he belongs. "
I take a breath, steadying myself against the tide of rage that still rises whenever I think about that bastard. Despite myself, the ceiling above us becomes a movie screen for memories I usually keep locked down tight.
"She tried rehab, over and over. Three different facilities.
Seven attempts total. But it never stuck.
The life always pulled her back." I swallow hard, the familiar knot of failure tightening in my throat.
"She'd get clean, start putting herself back together.
Then Angelo would show up, or one of her party friends, and.
.." I make a gesture like something vanishing.
"Back to square one. Last time she got out, she seemed better.
Called me every day for two weeks. Then nothing. "
My voice drops to a near-whisper. "She overdosed two years ago.
Left a note saying she was tired. Just..
. tired." The word hangs there, simple and devastating in its finality.
I can still see her handwriting, the slight slope to the right, the way the pen had pressed harder into certain words. Evidence I couldn't look away from.
Lila's hand rests over my heart, warm and steady through the storm of memory. Her touch anchors me to the present when the past threatens to drag me under.
"I'm sorry," she says softly.
"Don't be. She made her choices." The words sound harsh even to me, but they're armor I've worn so long they've fused to my skin.
"You loved her anyway."
Damn this woman and her ability to see through walls. "Yeah. I did."
I've told women about Juliet before, clinical facts delivered like a police report. But never like this, never leaving me... exposed. Like Lila's watching me perform open-heart surgery on myself.
It's fucking terrifying, and somehow necessary. Sex with Lila isn't just physical release. It's catharsis. She's excavating parts of me I bricked up years ago, letting light into places I kept dark for survival.
I've spent a lifetime patching wounds with oblivion: alcohol, violence, work. But Lila's touch feels like actual healing, not just numbing. And that scares me more than any firefight I've ever been in.
Because… because this tastes a lot like love.