Chapter 22 Dante #2
I smile against her chest, then focus entirely on the soft swell before me. I nudge the fabric aside with my nose and sink my teeth into her breast, savoring the shock that ripples through her. More broken sounds slip from her lips, her legs tightening around my hips, anchoring me to her.
I keep the bite for a long, perfect moment, then ease back just enough to give my tongue space.
Slowly, I lick the bruised skin, soothing the sting I left behind. She melts under me, her body loosening, my name spilling from her lips like a prayer she can’t stop repeating.
I take my time with her—my tongue tracing chaotic, wandering circles across her breast, teasing the sensitive places, coaxing more desperate, breathless sounds out of her with every pass.
I ignore the urgent, pulsing twitches of my cock as I work her open, rotating my fingers inside her before settling back into that relentless rhythm, driving them in and out with precision.
Her hands clamp onto my shoulders, nails cutting through the fabric as she clings to me like the world is tilting.
Estella bucks her hips, grinding down to meet every thrust, her body instinctively helping me pull her closer and closer to the edge.
“Good girl,” I rasp, brushing a kiss over her breast. “Good fucking girl. Let that pussy feel good.”
The crest of her orgasm slowly crashes into her in waves, each one hotter than the last. Her grip weakens, her breath staggering as her body tightens around my fingers.
I keep the same maddening pace she’s unraveling for, and my mouth closes around her nipple. I suck hard, drawing a raw, piercing scream from her—one that vibrates straight into my bones and lights every nerve on fire.
My tongue swirls around the hard peak, teasing her, claiming her, pushing her deeper into the spiral. My fingers curl inside her, stroking, rubbing, the wet rhythm of her pleasure filling the air like music meant only for me.
Her desperate breathing fractures as if her lungs can’t keep up with the pleasure ripping through her. That’s when I let her nipple slip from my mouth with a loud pop, lifting my face until our breaths collide.
My lips crash into hers, and instantly, our tongues collide—fighting, tangling, hungry for each other. She whimpers into my mouth, grinding harder against my hand.
And then, she breaks.
Her climax tears through her, violent and beautiful. Pain sparks through my lower lip when she sinks her teeth into it, biting down as her orgasm strikes full-force. I hold her tight, anchoring her as she rides it out, her body trembling so hard her ass nearly slips off the windowsill.
When the quake in her body softens and her muscles finally let go, she releases my lip with a sharp tug. Estella leans in immediately, catching the bead of warm blood with her tongue, licking it off like it belongs only to her.
I roll my eyes, a deep wave of pleasure tightening low in my spine.
She kisses me again, our lips bruising together. And in the rough heat of the kiss, beneath the hunger and the wreckage of her orgasm, there’s something else.
Something quiet but undeniable.
The barest spark of a beginning neither of us planned for.
The shadows drift lazily across the walls, shifting with the flicker of candlelight. The air carries a thin ribbon of warm wax and the faintest trace of coconut, soft enough to go unnoticed unless you’re already breathing it in.
The silence between us is thick, but not oppressive—more like a cocoon than a void.
Estella adjusts her position just slightly, and the bathwater stirs, sending a few bubbles breaking against the surface.
They cling to our skin, hiding most of us beneath the hot water as we sit together in the deep tub, neither of us brave enough to be the first to speak.
My hand stays in her hair, fingers drifting through the buttery strands, combing gently, smoothing them back, letting their softness anchor me. She melts beneath my touch, her energy seeping into me, softening something I hadn’t realized was so tightly wound.
I know I say this too often when I’m with Estella, but my mind refuses to accept the reality of her—of us. Every time I register the weight of this moment, I feel like I have to reaffirm it, name it, touch it, breathe it, just to understand what the fuck is happening beneath my own skin.
Because lately, I’ve learned far too much about myself. And the weight of that truth sits like a tectonic shift—my entire world grinding, realigning, breaking and reforming.
Yet somehow, it feels right.
Like everything that cracked was supposed to crack. Like this was the only outcome that ever made sense.
Estella drags one fingertip slowly across my chest, watching the rise and fall of my breathing with a softness that could split a man open.
Her finger glides toward my heart, stopping at the long scar that runs across it.
I look down at her, feeling the heat of her curiosity, radiating from her skin like light seeping through a closed door.
“Do you ever stop?” she asks, the words drifting out of her like a slow exhale.
My brows draw together as I try to understand. “Stop what?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her finger traces the scar with featherlight pressure, and in her touch, the old wound feels almost alive again, pulsing faintly, as if acknowledging her attention.
“Thinking,” she says softly. With her touch still on the scar, she lifts her chin until her eyes meet mine beneath the dim light. “You’re always deep in your head,” she murmurs. “Even when you’re here with me. Especially when you’re with me.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Thinking keeps me sane,” I say, and the moment the words leave my mouth, something inside me clenches.
It’s not exactly discomfort—more like a storm of sensation collecting under my skin, millions of tiny impulses pushing me toward something I can’t name. My muscles tighten as I try, once again, to make sense of myself.
“I don’t believe that,” she whispers, studying me. “It feels like thinking keeps you safe. Like if you let go, even for a second, something bad would happen.”
Her words stir something in me—something raw, something I don’t want touched.
A slow, needling discomfort pushes up from beneath my ribs.
I swallow again, feeling a knot of emotion lodge itself in my throat.
It sits there, immovable, refusing to let me simply exist in the moment with her like a normal fucking person.
“Can I ask you something?” she murmurs, her voice soft and delicate, like a whisper threading itself through the dark.
She looks impossibly calm right now—soft, composed, drenched in candlelight. As if nothing in the world could possibly touch her.
As if she isn’t inches away from dismantling me with a sentence.
“Ask me anything you want,” I say, bending down to press a small kiss to the top of her head.
Estella reaches for the wooden board beside the tub. Her fingers pinch two ruffled French fries, dragging them through a generous streak of ketchup before lifting one to my mouth. I take it from her fingers, grateful for the small distraction.
She eats the other, then clears her throat. “You always crave control, Dante,” she says quietly. “Why?”
My jaw tightens instantly. Heat floods through me, too fast, too hot, my discomfort colliding with the restless churn of thoughts I’ve been trying to outrun all night. It forms a pulsing core of anxiety deep in my chest, expanding, pushing at my ribs.
Why do I feel like this?
Why does that question cut so deep?
Thoughts swirl—too many, each one heavier than the last. She’s peeling back pieces of me I’d bolted shut, looking at parts of me I don’t show anyone, not even myself.
She’s seeing something I don’t want to see.
“I don’t know,” I say, the lie landing flat between us. It’s only partially false, but I can’t reach for the truth; it’s hovering just out of reach, brushing against the tip of my tongue like a ghost. “It’s just how I am.”
I reach for the wooden board, fingers closing around the cool stem of a wine glass. I take a sip, letting the warmth slide down my throat, trying to steady myself against the mounting pressure in my chest.
“There’s always a reason we turn out the way we do,” she says gently.
Her fingers shift, more of them coming to rest against my scar.
She traces the line of it, her touch gossamer-soft, and each faint brush of her skin sends a flicker of unease flashing through me.
“Do you remember anything from when you were younger?”
My breath catches. When I inhale, it comes out uneven. My temples throb with a slow, blooming ache, and I blink against the sudden dizziness pressing at the edges of my vision.
“Yes,” I answer before I even decide to. The word slips out too fast, too honest. Bile strikes the back of my throat as my mind flickers through a series of memories that feel like glass shattering behind my eyes.
“I know you lied about your parents,” she says softly, her voice calm, almost eerily steady. “I didn’t care about it then, so I never questioned it. But now I know what happened.”
My lip trembles, and a jolt shoots through my entire body. My pulse races, thundering in my throat, urging me to rise, to escape this conversation.
And I hate it. I hate that I feel this way.
My parents were good people. They didn’t deserve any of this. There’s no reason for the chaos inside me, no justification for the fire that burns at the edges of my mind.
I am the way I am because The Order took them from me. I was meant to inherit, to lead, to build the legacy they left behind.
“You’re doing it again,” Estella’s voice floats to me, but I barely hear it. It feels like I’m being pulled from the deepest recesses of my brain, tugged between awareness and the fog that refuses to lift, dragging me back, forcing me to stay buried in myself.