21. LEO #8
I want to see him. I want everything. I pull back with my legs still wrapped around him.
"Let me see you," I ask. My voice comes out strained, a sigh. "Please."
He stares at me for a second. As if considering if I deserve it.
Then, slowly, with a perverse solemnity, he undo the buttons of his shirt.
One by one.
I stop breathing.
One. Another. His shoulders, his chest—broad and defined.
His skin is marked by old scars and tattoos I've never seen.
Black ink, military lines, dates, acronyms. Some faded by time.
Others covered by scars. One in particular, on the left side of his chest, looks like a knife wound.
Fused to his flesh as if it were part of him.
All belong to him. Stories he'll never tell me.
The fabric of the open shirt slides down his arms, but he doesn't take it off. He leaves it hanging, loose. He knows exactly what he's doing to me.
"Fuck..." I whisper.
I want to touch everything, trace every line, memorize every damage they've tried to inflict on him.
He is violence in the form of a man. And yet, he's here. Above me. Allowing me to see.
"May I?" I whisper, hovering a hand over his skin.
That look in his eyes...
I run my hand over his skin like someone caressing a sacred altar. I feel the hardness of his muscles, the uneven texture of the scars. I feel smaller beneath him. And at the same time, more alive than I have ever been.
"You are..." I moan in supplication. "Fuck, Dante."
"I am what?"
That intonation sends an obscene heat between my legs.
I swallow hard. My words fail me. I want to call him my salvation, my monster, my personal hell. I want to beg. I want to thank him. But no word seems sufficient for what he is. For what he is to me.
I say the only thing that makes sense upon seeing him. What he is.
"My god."
I lean forward, ignoring the pain in my ribs. My lips find the skin of his chest, and I kiss the edge of an old scar. His skin is sacred.
"I worship you," I whisper. I feel his heartbeat quicken against my palm.
"Then pray, Nyx. Pray to me."
He entwines his fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck and pulls, dragging me to the edge of the bed. I don't fight. I surrender completely.
He forces me off the bed, throwing me to the floor. The impact of my knees on the marble hurts.
I look up at him, who now looms over me like a monolith. A god looking from his altar at his miserable creation. His shirt is still open, his chest marked by scars and ink. A fucking god.
"On your knees. Like a good devotee."
I obey without hesitation. I kneel before him. An offering.
His gaze sweeps over my body, assessing my submission. The satisfaction on his face is the most erotic thing I've ever seen.
He unzips his pants, and I see him, hard and throbbing. I don't need any more commands. I lean forward, rest my palms on his thighs, and open my mouth.
He doesn't order me. I know what to do. I take him whole, relaxing my throat, letting the metallic depths of his taste flood my tongue. He grabs my hair with one hand, using it to guide my head, to dictate the rhythm.
He forces me deeper. I can't suppress the moan, the gag reflex in my throat. His dick pulses. He likes it when I gag, when I run out of breath.
"Look at me."
I obey, lifting my tear-filled eyes to face him. His face is contorted in pure pleasure and dominance. Knowing I'm the cause of this does things to me.
Then, suddenly, he pulls me back. He moves away from me, leaving me gasping, my chin dripping saliva.
"Bed. Now," he orders.
I get up, my knees aching from the cold marble, and drag myself to the bed, lying on my back with my legs open for him.
He climbs over me, pinning me down. Quickly, with a desperate haste, he drags my pants down.
I lift my hips, helping him, and I expect him to invade me all at once, but he stops.
He leans in, kisses my neck, makes me melt before he bites.
Hard. I grab the back of his shirt, and the pain radiates in waves of heat across my collarbones, my ribs.
It leaves my lips as a loud, breathless moan; the pain activates every molecule in my body, makes them pulse for him.
He increases the pressure of his teeth for a second, and then, eases, kissing the spot he just marked. Blood wells up on my skin. He pulls back, his teeth stained with my blood.
"Can you take it?" he whispers. It's the closest thing to care he can offer me in the midst of his fury. He's chosen a new place to break me. And he's checking if I'm still with him.
I nod, panting, unable to form words.
"Look at me," he orders. He grabs my chin, forces me. "Do you want this?"
"Yes," I say. "Yes, fuck, please..."
I can take anything he wants to give me.
He grabs my thighs. Grips them hard enough to leave marks, forces them open, and pulls me closer. He positions himself between them, brushes against me.
I arch, ready, desperate. But he doesn't move.
He stares at me. His jaw is locked. His eyes are dark as crude oil.
"Do you need me to prepare you?" The words come out like a threat. "Or do you want it the way I know you like it, hm? You want it to hurt?"
My dick pulses. I moan.
"Just like this... Like always, Dante," I whisper, panting. "I want you to hurt me."
"Of course you do," he snarls, and the way he spits the words undoes me. "You filthy slut."
Without another warning, he drives into me. Deep. I clutch the sheets, his shirt, anything I can grab. My muscles protest the invasion, the pain splitting me in two. This is what I want. He grunts, and the sound nearly makes me come. I feel him tight, deep inside me, and it's torture. Paradise.
I let go of his shirt. I take his hand from my hips and guide it over my abdomen to the exact spot where the pain is sharpest. Where the rib is broken.
"Here," I whisper. "Squeeze."
He stiffens. It's a line he doesn't want to cross.
I press his hand down. Force it against the place that hurts the most. "Please," I beg. "I need it to be you."
"You're a fucking sick son of a bitch," he snarls through his teeth, and he does it. He squeezes.
Fuck. Fuck . I can't think. His hand presses down on the goddamn bone as if he wants to shatter it all over again. The world disappears. The pain is so violent it undoes me—it burns me, explodes inside me. It's too much, it's perfect , it's this . This. It hurts, so it's real. It's his .
He fucks me hard. The pain echoes through my entire body, from every direction. I don't know where the suffering begins and the ecstasy ends. Maybe there's no difference.
"You're no good," he mutters, as if he hates what he's doing. As if he hates how much he wants this too. "You like it. You motherfucker. You like this."
I love it when he curses at me. It gives me chills.
The combination makes my head spin, and nothing but the feeling of him, the touch of him, clouds my mind.
My muscles clench, letting him know exactly what his voice does to me, what his hands do, pressing right there .
He grunts and pulls my thigh, drawing me closer. He leans against my neck.
"You have no idea how much I've wanted you these last few days," he whispers. "How many times I had to stop myself from breaking down that door and fucking that filthy mouth of yours, you miserable slut."
I moan against his shoulder. "You should have."
"Shut up."
His hand moves up to my face. He pulls back just enough to force me to look at him. His eyes bore into mine, hard, torn.
"Look what you make me do," he spits the words, low, threatening. "Look at the fucking animal you create."
Yes .
The sound of our skin slapping together. The scent of his expensive cologne. The sight of his sculpted body. The sharp pain in my rib.
The world dissolves. The room disappears. Only he exists.
It's a short circuit. A blue screen. For a second, I don't exist. I come, feeling the sticky threads spread across my abdomen. My muscles, my whole body contracts, and I hear a deep growl. Him, being squeezed by my body. He grips my thigh hard, slides his thumb over my rib.
He spills into me, as deep as he can go. I feel it—warm, he vibrates, spasms, and soaks my insides. I clutch his shirt until he has flooded me, until the sounds become wetter, until he slides out with an obscene slickness.
He lies down beside me. The white fog that took over my senses slowly fades, and I'm back in bed, listening to his breathing. Smelling his cologne.
I turn to look at him. He's calmer, but that face is threatening from any angle. I love it. He's watching me, analyzing me.
I move, forcing my torso up. I want him closer, but a sharp sting stops me. This isn't like when he squeezes. This is just annoying.
"Ah, fuck," I curse unintentionally.
Dante frowns. The irritation is back in his eyes. He props himself up on an elbow, his gaze falling to my torso. "The rib?"
I nod. A deep breath only makes the stabbing pain worse.
"It's inflamed again, I think."
He touches it. Not like before; this time, it's careful, almost clinical.
"I squeezed too hard."
He's alarmed. Worried. The man who broke my molar because I pissed him off, who fucked me against a shower wall, and who just used me like I was his private property, is now worried that our fucking might have worsened a rib someone else broke. I can't get used to this.
I laugh. It hurts, but I laugh anyway.
"What the fuck are you laughing at?" he mutters. He already knows where this is going.
"Haven't we had this conversation before?"
He huffs.
"I'll call the doctor," he says, reluctantly.
He sits up and starts to turn. I stop him before he can leave the bed.
"No, no, no," I plead. I stretch out, swallowing the pain to reach and grab his wrist. I don't want to be in this room without him. "Don't leave me alone again."
He stops. He looks at my hand holding him, then at my face. It's an honest plea. I'll go crazy if he leaves.
Then, his body turns back to me. He gives in. He shows mercy.
Relief.
"I kept one side of the bed untouched," I say. I lie back down, pressing on my ribs—throbbing, burning—as if it helps suppress the pain from the effort. "Waiting for you."
He looks at me with soft eyes. They're new to me.
"I did the risk analysis. The probability that you had... grown tired of me was high."
He shakes his head. It's involuntary. "Nyx, I can't get your fucking voice out of my head. I stayed away so..." he stops. He gestures towards my ribs, "... this wouldn't happen."
I smile. How strange, to have Dante Volkov's concern. Depriving himself so I could recover.
"I was hoping we could talk," he says softly. Intimately.
He should have known I'd need him, especially after days alone. But he hesitated before putting his hands on me. It's true.
I smile. "Good to know I can still mess up your plans."
My voice comes out soft, too. On its own. My body yields to him, I respond to him, I reciprocate . Anything.
"No more games, Leo," he says. My heart nearly stops. Leo . It sounds sacred in his voice. "The noise... in my head. It came back when you were taken. Worse than ever." He stares at me. Beyond the fury and desire, I see a contained fear. "I don't function properly without you."
He pauses. Admitting it seems to cause him pain.
"But I can't give you a normal life. Peace. What I have to offer you is... this. Blood, violence, and a monster in your bed."
I can't breathe.
"Is that enough for you?" he says.
I can't fucking breathe.
I don't know how to answer that. He's cornered me. A simple yes is inadequate—he's offered me an immensity .
I force my body to move. I push my torso up, propping myself on the mattress, and I lean in.
"Fuck, Dante." I get closer. The pain rips a grunt from me, but I would crawl to have him nearer.
I climb on top of him, feel his hands automatically grip my waist. "Fuck.
" I sit on his lap, resting my arms on his shoulders.
He sees me wince in pain. He whispers, "Careful," as he steadies me, holds me. The word is so unexpected, so absurdly tender coming from him.
I slide my hands to his face. I hold him—ignoring the pain, ignoring everything but his eyes, his skin.
"I fucking love you," I whisper.
He frowns, but not with anger. Softly, he says, "It's not love, Nyx. It's uglier than that."
It's absurd. How could I not recognize the one thing that shatters my monotony, the one thing that causes any kind of chemical reaction in my head besides pain?
I smile, pressing our lips together. "Fine.
Then it's not love. It's... inevitability .
It's fucking physics . Call it whatever you want. But stay with me."
The fight in Dante's eyes fades.
All the fury, all the hesitation, all the walls he built around himself... it all comes crumbling down. He sighs, a sound of exhaustion, of an internal war that has finally ended.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says.
I kiss him. Slow, deep, a seal on the silent pact we've just made.
When we pull apart, he keeps his forehead pressed to mine. His gaze is still warm, but the usual shadow is there, slowly returning.
"But if you make me regret this..."
His hand slides to my throat. A light squeeze. A reminder.
"...not even God will save you."
I laugh.
Perfect.
If hell has a master, he's lying next to me.
And I've never felt so at home.