Chapter 24 Estella #2
He remains silent, and that silence sharpens every nerve ending. I don’t know what he intends, but the uncertainty ignites a light, buzzing heat under my skin.
I let him help remove the rest of my clothes, and a rush of awareness strikes me as the breeze skims over my bare skin.
I am exposed, completely, under his ravenous gaze.
Deliberately, he drags his tongue across his lips, and I suck in a sharp breath. One hand slides behind me, unclipping my bra, and my mouth falls open as the fabric slips free, letting my breasts bounce naturally.
“You don’t need a bra with this dress,” he murmurs, his voice taut and low, like a string pulled tight.
Before my mind can fully process it, he kneels. My eyebrows shoot up as a folded piece of fabric emerges from his pocket. He unfolds it, one hand brushing my leg softly, sending a ripple of pleasure through me. Air is stolen from my lungs, my energy siphoned by his simple touch as I close my eyes.
It will end me someday, I know it.
I lift my leg slightly, and he guides the white lace strap to my upper thigh.
A question rises in my mind, but before I can voice it, he retrieves a small knife from his pocket, tucking it carefully into the strap.
Every movement leaves me raw, exposed, tethered to him in a way that terrifies and enthralls me all at once.
His touch feels electric, like a live wire skimming across my skin, and my leg twitches at the brush of his fingertips. Then—just as suddenly as it came—the warmth disappears. The absence strikes me like a blow—a cold, hollow ache rushing through me so fast it leaves me unsteady.
“Yours is a bit overused, don’t you think?” he murmurs as he gets up and moves a hand to my face. His fingers tuck a fallen golden strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that contradicts the fire in his eyes.
He leans closer, and his scent rises around me, fresh and intoxicating. It slips into my lungs, fogging my thoughts, pulling me deeper into his gravity. His other hand drops to the knife in my lace strap, tapping the hilt lightly.
“I want to look at it,” I whisper, the words barely forming through the haze he drapes over me.
He studies me for a long moment before sliding the knife from the strap and lifting it to my eye level.
I tilt my head, drinking it in. A black knife, its blade sleek and sharp, with a flush of pastel pink cutting through the center of the handle.
The steel catches the lamp’s bright light, scattering it across our reflections.
Liquid heat unfurls in my lower stomach as the truth sinks in. He bought this for me. He simply saw the state of my old blade and decided I deserved better.
Dante must sense the storm inside me, because he moves the tip of the knife to my lips, his breath skimming my cheek as he whispers, “You deserve nice things, Estella.”
Slowly, he drags the blade lower, and I tilt my chin, offering myself to the moment. The sharp tip kisses my skin, slicing through it, a thin line of fire blooming across my mouth.
His gaze snaps to the cut the moment blood rises.
He leans in with aching precision, catching the first drop with his mouth before it can fall.
His tongue traces the line of blood to the corner of my lip, and I gasp, pressing closer.
My nipples skim the fabric of his shirt, tightening at the friction, and a low moan rumbles from his chest.
He takes my lower lip into his mouth, sucking the blood from it with hungry tenderness, and I arch into him, offering more without a second thought.
Dante pulls back for a heartbeat, the bloody tip of the blade brushing against his lips before he drags it across his skin, smearing my blood like paint, and then presses his mouth to mine.
The taste is coppery, sharp, and so fucking intoxicating, mingling with the faintly sweet remnants of ice cream on my tongue as we drink from each other like predators.
His hand slips the knife back into the lace strap, and then rises, fingers weaving through my hair with deliberate force.
He seizes a handful of my golden strands, pulling my face into his as he devours me.
The tang of blood, the sweetness of ice cream, the heat of his mouth—everything blends into a feverish cocktail that makes me shiver against him.
With a sharp smack, he pulls back, and his hands grip the dress from the hanger, unfolding it with a dangerous elegance. “Turn around,” he commands, his voice low and edged with a promise of something untamed.
My gaze flickers downward, catching sight of him. The sheer hardness of him makes me smile wickedly, and a rush of power swells inside me. I turn, eyes locking on our reflection, heart hammering at the sight of us mirrored together.
Dante lowers, and I lift one leg, letting him guide me into the dress.
His hot breath fans across my skin as he presses his mouth against my ass in a feather-light kiss, and I feel it deep in my bones.
Then, he moves upward, leaving a trail of soft kisses along my lower back, up my spine, until finally, the back of my neck.
His hands manipulate the fabric, wrapping it snugly around me, before reaching down to pull the zipper up. My eyes follow his movements in the mirror as he carefully shapes me into the dress, lifting and guiding my breasts until they sit perfectly.
Once the dress is fully on, I take it in. The bodice is corset-like, structured to cinch my waist and sculpt my silhouette. Tiny rhinestones catch the light, shimmering with every subtle movement, scattering prismatic sparks across the room.
Blood flushes my cheeks, a deep red that rivals the soft pink of the dress. I glance at Dante in the mirror, the raw intensity in his eyes igniting a wildfire in my core. Heat coils low in my stomach, flaring with each second, as the reflection of us holds me captive.
I don’t think I’ve ever worn a dress like this in my life, and I’ve worn many.
But this one… this one feels different. It looks sophisticated and elegant, soft in all the right ways, yet it sharpens the danger in my eyes, drawing it out as if the fabric itself knows what I am.
It’s like the dress mirrors the balance inside me—beauty and threat, silk wrapped around a blade.
Dante’s eyes trace every inch of me, slow and reverent, as if he’s committing my shape to memory.
His gaze never skips, never flickers away, not even for a breath.
When his tongue slips out to wet his lips, the flame in his dark eyes flares hotter, brighter, and hungrier than the one erupting inside me.
I swallow hard, something tight and strange unfurling in my chest. The fitting room is enormous, but it feels like the walls are inching inward, pressing in, squeezing what remains of my composure. The space shrinks around us, trapping heat, trapping breath, trapping me.
My bottom lip catches between my teeth as I shift my weight, a bead of sweat breaking across my forehead. The taste of sweet, burning ash lingers at the back of my tongue, the residue of his mouth still haunting me.
His eyes burn with carnal desire as his hand wraps around my waist, warm and possessive.
He turns me gently, and it’s only then I realize how weak my legs have become.
He’s peeled away every one of my defenses, stripped me down to nerve endings and instinct, and now I feel like a puppet with my strings dancing in his hands.
“You are beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low and soft, but sharp enough to cut.
The compliment strikes me like a spark to gasoline, sending heat spiraling through me so fast I feel it in my toes.
Only he can do this—make me feel exposed and fragile, while simultaneously making me feel like I’m the center of the universe.
Like I’m rare, irreplaceable. Like I’m a goddess carved from blood and starlight, and he’d raze continents just for the privilege of kneeling at my feet.
“I know that,” I manage to squeak, injecting a thin thread of sarcasm to hide how breathless I actually am.
My knees nearly give out right here as a smirk tugs at his lips. His hands on my waist are the only things keeping me upright—the only anchor I have left.
“Now pull it up,” he orders, his voice roughened by desire.
I swallow again before obeying. My trembling hands gather the delicate fabric and bunch it upward, baring the apex of my thighs with painstaking slowness.
Dante lowers to his knees again, and my breathing turns ragged.
His palms tap lightly against the sides of my legs—a silent command, another I follow without hesitation.
I lift my legs, one by one, setting them on his shoulders, my pulse thundering as the world narrows to just him, me, and the unbearable heat coiling between us.
My throat tightens as his fingers hook under my thong, tugging it down with a deliberate, torturous slowness. The sudden brush of cool air washes over me, and I shiver, acutely aware of just how aroused I am.
He doesn’t break eye contact as he pulls it down halfway, his gaze sliding to my pussy. The muscle in his jaw flexes as he takes in the evidence of my response, the aftermath of his teasing written plainly across my skin. My own breath hitches, caught somewhere between need and anticipation.
Leaning in, he inhales me, and my back arches involuntarily, nipples painfully hard against the silk of the dress.
A part of me aches to shed every layer, to let him touch wherever he wants, to be entirely his.
But another part savors the beautiful irony of wearing the dress he chose while he devours me.
Without warning, his lips descend, magnetized to my pussy. He presses a soft, deliberate kiss against me, and a shudder races up my spine, a husky moan escaping before I can stop it.
He hums at the sound, his hands gliding up my thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “So soft. So wet,” he murmurs, capturing another taste with his lips, this time from my clit.