15. LEO #3
Having him fully clothed between my naked legs is a sight I've fantasized about more than I'd like to admit.
He pushes me back, forcing me to lie on the desk, disorganizing a pile of contract papers. I don't care. I want this desk to be a mess.
He holds my thighs and spreads my legs even further. I can't contain my groan.
"You're a mess," he murmurs.
"I can't help it, mister. You turn me on."
He laughs, low and rough, and it makes me shiver.
"Yeah, Nyx. I turn you on. And I like seeing you fall apart for me."
His hand slides down my thigh, between my legs. I flinch. Fuck. It was always quick, hateful, with a need that bordered on disgust, and now he holds me like this.
"Fuck, mister, please..."
He lowers his hand to his pants, undoing the buckle.
Yes. He pulls his cock out—hard and thick, hot and pulsing.
He doesn't wait; he presses the tip before penetrating me slowly, filling me inch by inch.
It hurts—he didn't prepare me, and I've never put anything inside me—and it makes me feel alive.
"Mister, you're big," I breathe.
He grunts, pulling me closer by the thighs. "You're fucking tight."
He moves. How much I've fantasized about this is ridiculous—I want him to fuck me fast, deep, and I want it to hurt.
Each thrust sends a wave of pleasure through my body. I grab the edges of the desk, feeling his cock buried deep inside me. I groan. Too loud for such thin walls.
"Shut the fuck up," he orders. He leans over me and says, in that low, threatening tone I love, "Behind that door, there's a room full of capos. Do you think they won't notice you screaming for me to fuck you?"
I flinch. I like the idea of them hearing me—and he definitely felt it.
He gives another thrust, even deeper.
"What's wrong, Nyx? Do you want them to hear you begging me to fuck you harder?"
Yes. I do. But I revere him. I do whatever he wants me to do.
I bite my own hand hard, digging my teeth into the skin of my palm. The pain is familiar—I associate it with him, with his touch. I like it. He grunts as my body contracts around him.
"Fuck, Nyx," he murmurs. "You really like pain, don't you...?"
Each thrust hits my prostate. The metallic taste of blood begins to fill my mouth, and it only makes me harder. I feel the blood run down my mouth, falling down my neck, soaking my collar.
The pressure increases. I bite harder, and the skin has already given way, the cut is deep.
"Come for me, Nyx," he growls with how much I can contract for him. "Come for me, you little slut."
The insult is what makes me come.
My mind goes blank, and the only thing that matters is the sensation of him moving inside me. I contract around him, and he grunts with pleasure, exploding in me in a wave of pure ecstasy.
The pleasure is so intense that I feel empty.
It takes a while for me to get my bearings again. I'm not breathing properly, and the burning in my palm, when I stop biting it, still intensifies. I watch the blood run, the involuntary tremor of my hand, and he stays, too, until he catches his breath.
He's the first to move. He pulls back, sliding out of me, and shoves himself back into his pants.
I don't move. I watch him. It's a sight worthy of worship. He, fully dressed and composed, while I am a bloody, panting mess on his desk.
He walks silently to the side table in the office. He grabs one of those smoky whiskeys and pours it slowly into one of the crystal glasses.
"I hate you," he says suddenly. "I hate what you do to me."
I smile. I don't get up from the desk. "What do I do to you, mister?"
"This." He doesn't need to elaborate. This, the mess on top of his desk. He picks up the glass of whiskey and turns to me, with a stillness that is difficult to find on his face. "I can't think straight when you're around."
"What do you think about, mister?"
He stares at me with hatred. I love it.
"You know what I think about."
"No, I don't," I provoke. "Tell me."
He barely drinks the whiskey—he abandons the glass on the table where he got it, and comes closer to me. He leans in. Grabs my chin, not caring about the blood, and forces me closer, his face inches away from mine. "I think about fucking that smart mouth of yours, Leonel. That should shut you up."
He lets me go with a sharp push.
I exhale.
Leonel . It's the first time he's called me that.
I sit up on the desk. This is a kind of intimacy I never imagined he would give me.
He goes back to the side table, to the glass of whiskey. He swirls the liquid and doesn't drink it.
"Come here," he says softly. It's an order.
I get up from the desk. I grab my clothes—the discarded pants—but don't put them on yet. I want him to see what he did to me.
I steady myself with how much my legs are shaking before approaching him.
He takes my wrist, carefully. Too carefully, which doesn't suit him and sends a strange itch down my spine. He turns my palm up and examines the cut. There's a reddish circle, outlined by several deep, dotted cuts. There's still fresh blood between them.
He sighs. He raises the glass of whiskey, the golden liquid swaying, and for a second, I think he's going to give me a drink.
Instead, he pours it on my hand.
I close my eyes. I try to pull my attention from the cut in an impulse, and I bite my lower lip to keep from making a sound as the pain explodes in my hand.
It stings, and the burning spreads throughout my arm.
It's hell. And I love it. I force myself to stay still, to keep my body from contracting and making any kind of sound other than a gasp. Only the tremor remains.
Dante sees my struggle. How I try not to moan with pleasure. At a certain point, he recognizes it.
"You liked that, didn't you?" he says softly. There's a hint of disapproval.
Sweat runs down my forehead. The whiskey cleans the blood flow and disinfects the cut—the pain is excruciating, but his perception of me is more important.
He doesn't let go of my wrist as he leans over, getting a pristine cloth from inside a desk drawer after abandoning the now-empty crystal glass. He presses it against my palm, holds it there for a few seconds, and wipes away the traces of blood.
"Why did you do that?" he says, firmly.
I didn't need to bite so hard to hold myself back. Anyone else wouldn't do that, wouldn't turn their own skin into a cluster of cuts.
But the veiled accusation turns me on. You hurt yourself for me. It makes me want to kiss him.
"I told you that you turn me on," I say.
He lets me go with a hint of disgust. "Stop that shit. Only I get to hurt you."
I smile. I'd like that, too.
"Is this a long-term promise?" I say. I don't ask for permission to grab some tissues from the corner of the cellar to clean myself up as best I can.
Dante frowns. "What?"
"My medical leave is ending. And I don't know what the plan is.
Do I go back to the office on Monday? Are you going to keep me here forever?
" I run the tissues over my abdomen and thighs, but it doesn't save me from the sticky feeling.
I need a shower. "Because if I go back, your monopoly on my suffering ends," I continue on autopilot.
"I'll have to split my time between you and the pure agony of listening to my boss explain a for loop. "
I know I'm playing with fire.
A controlled fury takes over Dante's features at the mention of an entire world where I exist, and that he doesn't control.
He didn't like that.
I'd like a straight answer about what's going to happen, but I imagine the choice between keeping me locked up here and returning me to that asshole Chad isn't entirely up to him—he's not the only Volkov—and this pisses him off.
"You're still on your sick leave," he clearly forces himself to repeat. He's stating a fact he hates.
I get dressed in silence. He watches me.
"Get out," he orders.
I adjust my wrinkled clothes. My shirt is ruined, its collar stained with red blood, and my hand is still throbbing.
He doesn't answer my question. What's going to happen . He just drowns in silence in a stormy cloud of hatred; all the rage that wasn't in him before is now here. I'd let him empty it all into me. Hurt me.
I dodge the small dark stains on the carpet—my own blood and spilled whiskey—and walk to the door.
I glance at him over my shoulder. Leaning against the side table, he takes a cigarette from a box thrown in the corner of the cellar—Dunhill, I gather—, and he doesn't look at me anymore.
I open the door. I leave the office slowly, walking toward Luca, who waits for me at the end of the hall.
He looks at me with something that borders on sympathy and guilt. The blood. He thinks Dante beat the hell out of me in there, all for humiliating his capos under Luca's watch.
I don't clarify.
He takes me back to my room without a word.
My body is more marked than it has ever been. There's a greenish blemish on my lower back, purplish marks on my waist and thighs, and bruises—hickeys—scattered across my neck and collarbone. They are his signatures. I can't help but like them.
After my shower, I get a gauze pad and bandages from a first-aid kit in the medicine cabinet. I don't want anyone to ask me about a bite mark on my hand, so I wrap a few layers of gauze with the bandages around my palm. I find it difficult to do with only one available.
I secure the bandages with a random knot that I tie half with my mouth and half with my hand.
I leave the bathroom, drying my hair with a towel, and hear a knock on the door. A gentle sound, unlike Luca's authoritative ones.
It's Svetlana.
" Leo? " she asks from behind the door. " May I come in? "
Once again, Svetlana shows up at my door after Dante has fucked some part of my body. At least this time she gave a warning before entering.
"One second," I exclaim, putting on the first pair of sweatpants I see and looking for any turtleneck to hide the hickeys.
Dressed, I open the door.