17. Dario
SEVENTEEN
A bitterness swells within me,a dark tide rising every time Mia throws another barb my way.
”Of course, you”d think that,” she snaps, the curve of her full lips twisted in disdain. ”You wouldn’t recognize decency if it slapped you across the face.”
God, this woman is insufferable. Here I am, going out of my way to show her I’m more than this monster she’s painted me out to be, yet she still isn’t happy.
I’m accustomed to control, to silent nods and immediate obedience. But Mia—she”s fire, igniting sparks of frustration no one else dares to fan.
“Decency has no place in our world, Bella. Or have you forgotten the vows that bind you to me?”
Her eyes flash, and I can almost see the cogs turning in her mind, crafting her next verbal assault. I brace for it, muscles tensed, ready for the impact.
”Vows?” Her laugh is sharp, a shattered glass on marble. ”You mistake chains for willing commitment, Dario DeLuca.”
I want to grab her, press her against me, and show her the difference between chains and the weight of my desire. Yet, I stand still, overwhelmed by her resistance and my growing desire for her.
”Chains,” I murmur, voice low, ”can be quite… compelling if worn willingly.”
We are in a constant tango, this struggle between our opposing thoughts, beliefs, and desires, and it”s slowly chipping away at my self-control. With every retort, she stokes the flames, and I am nothing if not a man who plays with fire.
”‘Compelling’?” She steps back, a strategic retreat that only serves to draw me in further. ”Is that what you call this… arrangement?”
”‘Arrangement,’” I echo, the word rolling off my tongue as I advance, matching her step for step, ”is a delicate term for the promise of forever, Mia.”
She tilts her chin up. ”Forever is a long time to live with a devil.”
”Then it”s a good thing,” I say, closing the gap until I feel the heat radiating from her body, ”devils don”t tire easily.”
Our conversation cuts through the tension, like two opponents using sharp words. Her defiance has an appealing boldness, and her spirit attracts me despite the turmoil she brings.
”Careful, Dario,” she warns, yet her voice betrays her, quivering like a plucked violin string. ”Even devils can be vanquished.”
”By an angel, perhaps,” I concede, lifting my hand to brush a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. The contact sends a jolt through me, awakening a craving that thrums beneath my skin. ”But you, Mia Bella, are no angel.”
”Nor you a savior,” she retorts, but her breath catches as my fingers trail down the column of her neck.
My touch is an affirmation, a reflection of the carnal ache that burns inside me.
”Who said anything about saving?” I whisper, my gaze locked onto hers. ”Some things are worth corrupting.”
I inch close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin; the subtle scent of jasmine surrounds her like a barrier meant to protect her from the world and from me. Yet, no fragrance can hide the deeper scent of her need, which envelops us both. Mia”s eyes, full of defiance, meet mine with every look. She stands in front of me, breathing deeply. Her lips part, and even without words, her slight tremble reveals her inner turmoil.
The distancebetween us is filled with unspoken words, charged with the tension of almost touches and near misses. When I reach out, it is not to close this gap but to overcome it.
My fingers graze her arm, light as a whisper yet laden with intent. Her skin is fire under my touch.
”Stop,” she breathes, but it”s not a command—it”s a surrender disguised as resistance, and we both know it.
”Can”t,” I reply, the single word a confession of my inability to resist the pull of her gravity.
In one swift motion, my arms are around her, lifting her as if she”s nothing more than a feather caught in the wind. She gasps, a sound lost to the symphony of our rapid heartbeats and the rustle of fabric as I press her against me.
”Let me go,” she demands, though her body arches into mine, betraying the lie.
”Never.” The word is a promise etched into the marrow of my bones.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
We collide with the bookshelf, a cascade of knickknacks and paperbacks tumbling around us like the remnants of a world fading to black. Her grip on my shoulders tightens, nails digging in—half plea, half defiance—as if she could hold back the relentless surge of our combined recklessness.
”Dammit, Dario,” she hisses, her breath hot against my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
”Dammit, indeed,” I growl back, my hands finding purchase on her hips, drawing her even closer until there”s no air, no space, nothing but the intoxicating blend of will and want.
With one hand under her juicy ass for support, I yank the fabric of her bikini top with the other, a move of pure desperation. Her bikini yields like the last bastion of modesty, and I draw her left nipple into the warmth of my mouth. The sensation is electric, a live wire sparking between us as she arches into me.
”God,” she breathes, no longer a sharp retort but a surrender to the flame we”ve kindled.
The scent of her arousal mingles with the aged musk of leather-bound books, an intoxicating perfume that fuels my hunger. Books continue to thud to the floor, their scholarly protests drowned by the pounding of blood in my ears. She”s all softness and curves against the edge and angles of my tattooed skin.
Without breaking our connection and through sheer determination, I manage to undo my pants and move them down to free myself, every muscle tensed with urgency, as I slip her panties aside with a roughness that speaks of instinctual need. There”s no space for gentleness now. This moment belongs to the raw force hidden beneath a veneer of civility.
I press into her, close enough to feel her heartbeat racing against mine, the rhythm erratic but perfectly synchronized. The solid wood of the bookcase digs into her skin, but it”s the pressing heat of me that draws a gasp from her lips—a sound that etches itself into the air, a claim stamped upon the silence.
We move together, skin to skin, breath to breath. The world narrows to the space where we are one, where her cries mingle with the deep groans that rumble from my chest.
I lose myself in her, my resolve weakening with each tilt of her hips and with every rake of her nails down my back. In this union, there’s a power here that humbles and exalts me—a paradox that only she could embody and awaken within me.
With my fingers splayed under her ass, I spread her open, stretching her sweet pussy while I pound into her. Over and over, I pump forward, the sound of our sex filling the air. It doesn’t matter that she just told me she hates me or that she irks every nerve in my body, not even that neither of us bothered to close the door.
All that matter is this, her perfect fucking tits in my face, her plush body against my hard exterior, her soft moans. Moans that are enough in themselves to ruin me. This started as a just plan for power, but little does my bride know, she’s the one staking her claim with each passing day.
As I piston my hips into her, I lean back to watch her. Mia mews and thrashes against me, taking from me what she wants—a release. Her pussy is drenched and needy, and I love every inch of it.
“So fucking tight, Bella,” I confess.
“Mm,” Mia moans and wraps both arms around my neck for balance.
“You say you hate me.”
I thrust forward.
“But you don’t have to love me to come for me.”
Another thrust.
“You’re so fucking pretty taking my cock.”
“Shit.” Mia’s pussy clamps around me, and her eyes roll heavenward.
“That’s it, Bella. Fuck me, make yourself come on my dick.”
Her back curves, and I lose myself in her sweetness, feeding her greedy pussy until my vision blurs.
“Fuck, Mia,” I grunt as my cock twitches inside her. White-hot pleasure explodes, and I watch her face contort in ecstasy. Sweet fucking Nirvana.
My body quakes, and my heart jackhammers, and I hold her up by her ass. The last thing I want is to crush her. I’m caught off guard because I’ve never cared about a fucking soul. Mia. My Bella. My bride.
“I’m coming,” she announces while clenching around me again, and that’s all it takes for me to finish.
Without thought, I spill my seed inside her, staying put for just a beat longer. Every nerve ending in my body is charged and sensitive, and I can barely move. It’s not that I want to; being inside her has become my new favorite thing.
Once my heart rate settles, I pull out and look down at her, breathing heavily. I love the way her hair cascades down her shoulders. She’s a goddamn angel. One I’d kill for.
As I lose myself, I know that this is only the beginning. In this moment, we are everything and nothing, the alpha and omega of each other’s worlds. Though we will return to reality, to the roles we play and the masks we wear, right now, there”s only us—Dario and Mia, innocence and destruction.
I finally help her to her feet, and she’s still sticky with our juices. Mia quietly pulls herself together, disdain replacing the ecstasy she wore like a badge only a second ago. She doesn’t look at me, shame staining her perfect face. She hates that she’s given in not once but twice, and I bet she despises that more than she does me.
Once again, the charade continues, back to the days when this was merely an arrangement.
“Starting tomorrow, you’ll join me at some campaign stops, and you can do what you need for the community center. I know how important that is for you,” I say while buttoning my pants.
“Fine.” Mia glares at me and adjusts the straps on her shoulder.
Without another word, I exit the room, leaving behind the stench of sex and scattered books. I head down to my study, where I pour myself a glass of whiskey. Her scent still lingers on my fingers as I bring it to my lips and take a swig—damn woman. Mia was supposed to be an easy conquest—a pawn in the game of power and politics, but she lights a fire in me unlike any other woman before her—and Christ knows there have been many.