17. LEO #4
I leave the soap aside as the water soaks the expensive fabric of his suit.
The black of his suit turns to pitch. The fabric clings to the muscle on his shoulders, his arms. Beneath it, his white shirt goes transparent, mapping every line of his torso.
His leather shoes squelch on the wet floor.
There's no time to process, no time to admire—he walks until his chest is pressed against mine, until my back slams against the tile.
Yes.
Hot water runs over both of us, mixing in the space between our bodies. He forces my chin up, forces my eyes to meet his.
Yes.
"You don't stop, do you?" he snarls, his voice vibrating through his chest and into mine. "You have to beg for it."
His hands move from my chin to my neck. My pulse quickens under his skin.
He leans in, his mouth inches from mine.
"You wanted my attention, you needy whore," he whispers, his lips brushing mine. "Now you have it."
His hand digs in with force. With a single swift movement, he turns me.
My chest, my arms, the tip of my already hard cock, everything slams against the tiles of the wall. The contrast with the warm water and the soaked fabric of his clothes pressed against my back is delightful. He pins me.
"This," he growls in my ear. His free hand moves up, his fingers unceremoniously tangling in my hair. He pulls hard. My head is thrown back, and I arch my neck, exposing my throat to the jet of water.
I moan. It's exactly what I wanted.
His mouth brushes the skin behind my ear. "You like to obey, you fucking bitch?"
My knees feel weak. The word— bitch —goes straight to my cock.
He yanks my hair harder. " Answer ."
Tears form in my eyes. The pressure in my scalp is exquisite. "Yes, mister."
I like to obey. I like to be used by him, I like to feel his strength—a single touch is all it takes for him to reduce me to nothing. He makes me want to kneel at his feet and give up every bit of power I have left. I would beg. I would fucking beg.
"That's all you do," he growls. "That's all you can do—take orders like the slut you are."
Fuck, his voice alone makes me want to cum. I would let him do anything he wanted—and he knows. He's felt me shake under his hand.
He moves his knee, nudging my legs apart, spreading my thighs. The feeling of his pants, soaking wet and glued to his muscular legs, pressing against me is fucking perfect. I move, wanting friction?—
He pushes my face against the tiles. "Don't fucking move."
I don't move. I wait.
I hear a zipper opening. The rustling of a belt. His free hand wraps around my throat and holds tight. He grinds against me, his hard cock rubbing against the crease between my ass.
I moan. It's too much. The hot water, the hard tiles, and his hand, tight, constricting. He squeezes and holds—fucking holds, pressing against my pulse. I'm lightheaded.
My cock aches.
"Don't come until I tell you," he orders.
The thick, hot tip of his cock slides down the cleft of my ass. My skin tingles, I clench. I wait—and I can feel the pressure of it as he begins to push against my entrance.
"Don't you fucking come without my permission."
Fuck. Fuck, that's good.
"Dante," I say his name with reverence. Like I fucking mean it. "Fuck, Dante."
He pushes harder.
His free hand wraps around my hip, and he yanks, forcing me to feel every bit of him.
He sinks his fingers in the skin of my hip—a reminder—and thrusts hard.
My muscles try to tighten, to shut him out, but there's no strength left.
He pushes in anyway—dry, brutal—and it fucking hurts.
God, I want it to hurt. The sudden fullness forces a ragged moan out of my chest as my fingers scramble for something to hold onto and I scratch, useless, at the smooth wet tiles.
The hand on my hip slides forward, curling around my cock.
He's in control of everything, every bit of it—the pleasure hits me as he pumps inside me, again and again. His hand strokes up, twisting, sliding down—the lack of air—the sensation of it—his cock—I feel dizzy—everything is spinning, all I can think about is him.
"Dante," I groan, breathless. His grip is so fucking tight?—
"Not yet."
My eyes close. Everything is white, my skin is burning up?—
" Not yet , whore."
His growl calling me whore almost makes me come.
"D-Dante, don't—" I try to warn him, but he only clenches my neck harder, forcing the last air from my lungs.
I can't fucking think. It's all him, all his voice, all the water and steam, the feeling of him inside me, and my vision turns dark around the edges, a small pinprick of light left when he sounds like a fucking god, saying, "Come, you fucking slut."
I do. I do in the same moment he spills into me, with his teeth biting into my neck. I come all over his fingers, on the shower wall. My eyes are open, but I don't see anything. It's an eternity or a few seconds. It doesn't matter.
His teeth, dug into my skin, are replaced by a brush—a kiss. The hand that choked me loosens. "Breathe," he whispers.
The air fills my lungs again.
I inhale and exhale—Dante—Dante, Dante, Dante , and I feel the water sliding down my body again, I feel the cool tiles against my chest, and I feel Dante. Dante . His mouth pressed to my shoulder, his skin touching mine.
The fragments of reality click into place for something beyond us—the bathroom. Yes. My bathroom, in a Volkov mansion, and the shower is on. I look down. The water washes away the mess we made as a thin red trail runs down my leg. How deep he went. And Dante is dressed.
I push myself against the wet wall. His hands loosen on me in a silent permission for me to turn, still holding tightly enough to anchor my useless, trembling legs.
If it weren't for his hands, I would lose my balance at this sight.
Dante. Soaked, dripping.
His hair, always impeccably combed back, is wet, heavy, darker, and slicked down, with a rebellious strand stuck to his forehead. Drops of the hot water run down his face in a delicious trail to his jaw, and his eyelashes hold droplets, looking thicker.
And the dress shirt. White. Transparent, clinging.
The rumors don't do Dante Volkov justice.
He is monstrous. Monstrous in the most stunning way possible. The definition of his muscles is obvious, and I want to trace the borders of each one. His skin, obscured by the fabric, is marked, painted—I see the shapes of scars, tattoos.
I stare at him. Dante . His thousand-dollar suit is soaked, ruined because of me.
I lean against his chest, feel the fabric of his shirt.
He doesn't push me away. He looks at me with the same harshness I already know, attentive, and now, with softened edges.
I slide my hand to his jaw. I feel his hair, the nape of his neck, with my fingers. I lean in. And I kiss him.
The hot water jets stream between us. They stream over our lips, and I feel them running down the back of his neck, on my fingers. Dante squeezes my waist. He pulls me closer, kisses me back, deeply, devouring me every time his tongue touches mine.
It's delicious to kiss him in the water.
I slide my thumb inside the collar of his shirt. "How much did this suit cost?" I whisper against his mouth.
He bites my lower lip. Hard. "Too much."
"Ruined…"
I tug at his shirt, trying to undo the buttons.
"The cost of dealing with you."
He steps away from me. Three steps. I'm forced to watch him leave the shower stall, dripping on the tiled floor as he walks.
He reaches for a towel from the rack. He slides his blazer off, wearing that white—soaked transparent—shirt.
His arms, his back. I'm fucking hypnotized.
His back muscles bulge, contracting, relaxing as he dries off.
The tattoos that run down his arms, the ones that look like snakes, and the ones that are words; the scars that cover his back, the ones that are faded with age. I can see them all clearly.
He looks like a fucking god.
"Stop staring and finish your shower," he orders, not looking at me.
I sigh. "You're making this hard, mister."
His gaze narrows. "Now."
I bite back a smile and obey.
He towels himself dry. I take the soap and finish my shower, running it over my increasingly sore muscles. New marks are already forming—purplish bruises on my hips where his fingers squeezed.
I wash away the remnants of him and the blood.
When I'm done, he's already back in the room. I dry myself, towel the excess water from my hair, and apply a new dressing to the bitten palm of my hand. I walk back into the room with the towel wrapped around me, putting every fresh mark on display for him.
He watches me from the leather armchair. His blazer is gone, and his clothes are no longer soaking wet, just damp enough to cling to his frame. I can trace the lines of muscle, the black ink of his tattoos beneath the fabric. It's an aphrodisiac.
I put on whatever clothes Luca left for me one day—clothes in my size that still seem far too loose. I've been underweight for a long time. I don't care. I get dressed in front of him. He's already seen everything there is to see.
The moment I'm done, he speaks. "Bed. Now."
I don't fight it. A half-smile is my only rebellion, getting in bed and pulling the thick covers over me. I settle into the mattress. It's softer than mine—I've gotten used to it as best I can, at this point—and definitely more expensive.
He stays still. Is he going to watch me all night?