Chapter Fifteen
Evangeline
The luxury sedan idles in the narrow alley behind the coffee shop, its dark tinted windows all but screaming cloak and dagger assignation.
Slipping through the passenger door, my heart’s pounding, and I’m clutching my small purse against me.
This is reckless. Planning a secret meeting with Dante, seeing him again.
I know it’s dangerous, but I guess danger no longer scares me.
What terrifies me is how desperately I crave him.
We haven’t been together in days, only trading text messages that leave my body on fire.
He’s always so explicit in describing how much he desires me, asking me to touch myself and requesting I send him provocative pictures.
Never have I been one to send nudes or even wanted to send them.
Heck, no one’s even asked me to before, but when Dante commands me to do something, for some reason, I don’t hesitate.
Whether it be a snapshot of me in just my black lace thong, which I purchased just for him. Or a video of me rubbing my nipples and my clit until my orgasm barrels through me, and I scream his name; I do as he asks.
I don’t even recognize the person I’ve become lately. Just a few weeks ago, my identity was that of a boring pharmacist; now I’m some sex-crazed maniac.
The car turns into a private garage beneath a soaring high-rise, and I immediately notice several men in black tactical gear with large guns.
As I follow the driver to a private elevator, my palms are slick with nervous perspiration.
The driver, a nice, older man in a dark suit, reaches in and pushes a single button labeled “penthouse”.
“Have a good evening, miss,” he bows his head with a smile and steps back before I can thank him.
As the large metal doors close soundlessly, I ask myself for what must be the hundredth time if I’m doing the right thing. Taking a secret meeting with a much older, dangerous, well-known mobster to satisfy my sexual urges screams poor decisions.
When the elevator doors finally glide open, I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath forever.
Before me lies his penthouse, with floor-to-ceiling glass framing the glittering Chicago skyline, polished stone underfoot, a seating area of black leather sofas, and crystal chandeliers dripping with soft light. Every detail of his home screams power, wealth, and elegance.
Clutching the cardigan I’ve worn over my simple knee-length yellow dress closer, suddenly everything about me feels too plain, too frumpy. My worn leather sandals click awkwardly against the marble.
What am I doing here? I’m a pharmacist’s granddaughter, for heaven’s sake. He’s a powerful criminal kingpin ruling from his skyscraper kingdom. We’re from two very different worlds, and I don’t think I belong in his.
Dante emerges from the shadows off the large entry. He’s not wearing his typical all black tonight, but a cream-colored jacket with an open-collar white shirt, and casual dark slacks.
If I thought the all-black look was attractive on him, the white shirt against his olive skin tone and thick, dark hair, makes him look even more stunningly virile than ever before.
His massive shoulders are straining the fabric of his coat, and the spicy scent of his cologne engulfs me, making my knees weak as he approaches.
His dark eyes zero in on me immediately, roving me from head to toe, consuming me with their intensity.
“Evangeline. You came.” His voice is the gruff gravel I’ve come to expect, but there is a note of relief.
“Yes,” I whisper, breathless, “but this is so, so dangerous, Dante.”
He steps closer. “I know,” his voice is hoarse, but tender. Then, a slow, wicked smile curves his lips. “I also know that nothing worth having is safe, cara mia.”
I want to tell him I’m desperately afraid, and I only came because I can’t bear another night without him. But I know that will make me sound like a needy little girl, which is exactly what I am, I guess.
Because I now suspect my uncle’s secrets run much deeper than I ever thought possible, I want to tell him how I feel trapped, frightened of what comes next, but I don’t.
When he lovingly cradles my jaw and his thumb grazes my lips, I can’t speak but only tremble from his touch.
“Dante, I can’t stop thinking about you … thinking about us and how scary this is.” My confession is barely audible, but my fear is evident.
“Then don’t think tonight, bella. Let me do all the thinking for you.” He crushes me to him, and I can feel his long, hard length press into my upper body as he devours my mouth possessively.
“Let go for me tonight,” he murmurs against my lips, threading his hands through my hair, angling my head, and taking my lips once more.
His kiss is fierce, remorseless. Days of longing and denial shatter any reservations I have as I clutch at his shirt, needing him closer. He reaches down and grabs my upper thighs in his powerful grip, and my legs wrap around his waist instinctively. My purse is forgotten, tumbling to the floor.
Dante doesn’t break our kiss as he strides across the room, past the leather sofas, past the soft rugs, and towering fireplace, to the massive dining table in front of the broad expanse of windows overlooking the city. His city.
The long table is set with silver and crystal that rattle as he sets me down on the cool wood. A plate shatters somewhere in the distance, and I think I hear glass breaking, but I’m too far gone in my fog of desire and need for this man to comprehend my environment.
“I wanted to do slow and romantic, but fuck me if I can help myself. Dinner can wait.” His gravel voice is low and seductive as he pulls from our kiss and pushes my knees apart, stepping between them.
My dress is riding up over my thighs, and I can feel his long, thick erection pressing into my core.
It’s obvious there’s no courtship tonight, no slow-burning romance, only raw need from both of us. Just like the first time.
His hands explore me with rough certainty as if he’ll die without claiming me here and now. And I want it. I’m here for it.
The taste of his mouth is an intoxicating drug I can’t seem to get enough of as he devours me with each kiss, his tongue dueling with mine.
Dante’s hands are rough and bruising as he runs them up my legs, but now those hands feel like home.
They’re a familiar touch in this world that has become so foreign to me.
He places one large hand flat on my chest, pressing me down on the table, like I’m his to feast on in place of his dinner. And I am Jesus Christ, I am. Every inch of me is his, including the swollen, trembling heat between my legs.
His gaze is riveted on mine, and I see the smoldering flame of want reflected in them. His eyes drop from mine and slowly move over my body in approval as he pushes the light cardigan off my shoulders, then grasping the hem of my dress to expose my simple cotton panties and bra.
He lets out a low growl of approval. “Are you going to let me fuck this pussy, strega dolce?”
My nod is the only response he gets before I allow him to move and manipulate my body like a small doll, not taking part as he undresses me to use me as he sees fit.
It’s unspoken, but I know that’s what he wants me to do. Dante likes to dominate and to have control. Tonight, I want him to have it.
His fingers tangle in my hair, yanking my head back until my neck is arched and exposed.
His teeth graze the soft skin there, and I whimper, my nipples hardening against the cotton of my bra.
Reaching behind me, he unclasps the offending fabric and tosses it aside, the cool air of the penthouse making my nipples pebble even harder.
He doesn’t stop there because Dante knows how to wreck me.
While one hand continues to hold me against the table, his other slides down my body, over the curve of my breasts, pinching a nipple hard enough to make me cry out.
Then it moves lower, tracing the dip of my waist and the flare of my hips until he reaches the slick, drenched heat between my thighs.
I cry out in both shock and anticipation as I hear the fabric of my panties rip as he tears them off with a snarl of impatience
Pressing both palms to my inner thighs, he spreads them as wide as they will go, almost to the point of pain, making me wish I were far more flexible.
Then, he uses one foot to drag a chair from behind him to the end of the table, sitting down between my legs as if to feast. It doesn’t take long for me to figure out that he plans on making a meal of me tonight.
I can feel him staring intently at my pussy, almost as if he wants to commit the sight to memory. Embarrassed, I attempt to close my legs, but he slaps one thigh and growls his displeasure. Trying to relax, I allow him to look his fill.
“Look at you. So wet, so eager for my cock. Even your pussy is pretty,” he murmurs in appreciation. “But never deny me what’s mine, cara mia.”
Satisfied with my compliance and the sight before him, he leans down, his tongue plunging into my core like he wants to own every corner of me, every secret I’d ever kept locked away. His lips are savage and hungry, his fingers leaving bruises I know I’ll cherish for days.
He then runs his tongue up my center, biting down on my clit, sharp and sudden, and I gasp in surprise.
My body arches, pressing into his face like I’m begging for more, and I am.
Begging for the pain mixed with pleasure only he can give me.
This is Dante’s way. I want more. I will always want more from this man.
“You’re fucking soaked,” he growls, his voice rough, dark, and filthy. His fingers press inside me, curving upwards, massaging deeply and making me tremble, desperate to come. But he doesn’t give it to me.
No, Dante is a goddamn sadist, drawing out every second of this torture until I’m begging incoherently.
“Please,” I whimper, my voice breaking, my hips bucking against his hand. “Please, Dante...”
He grins, cruel and beautiful, and shoves another finger deep inside without warning.
I gasp, my body convulsing around him, my nails digging into the table like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
His fingers move in and out, rough and relentless, curling just right to hit that spot again that makes me see stars.
My moans are ragged, broken, obscene as he works me over, his thumb circling my clit with just enough pressure to make me scream.
“That’s it,” he growls, his breath hot against my core. “Take it, strega dolce. Take it all. You are doing so well, being my proper slut tonight.”
At those words, I gasp, knowing I should feel degraded or insulted. Instead, I feel a sense of pride that I’ve made this powerful man praise me, that I can handle his needs. Now, I’m all but purring, wanting more of Dante’s words of affirmation.
But then he pulls his fingers out, leaving me both empty and aching. Whining, my body trembling with need. Dante gives a dark chuckle and seems to just be getting started.
It’s then that I remember Dante Vescari has a reputation for torturing people. He’s a master of his craft, and tonight, I’m his willing victim.
He suddenly flips me onto my stomach using one hand. My cheek is pressed against the cold, solid surface of the table as I claw at the wood, and he yanks my hips back, leaving my ass in the air, completely at his mercy.
I can hear the metal of his belt buckle being undone, and then I feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against my pussy, thick and hard. Whimpering again, my body clenches in anticipation.
He doesn’t go slow. Dante isn’t about gentle. He slams into me in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt as I scream his name, as he fills me, stretching me, ruining me.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave bruises. “You’re so goddamn tight. I will never get enough of this tight cunt.”
He pulls back and slams into me again and again.
His rhythm is rough and punishing until I’m crying out with every thrust, my body shaking with a pleasure so intense it’s painful.
His cock drags against that deep, sweet spot inside me with every movement, sending shockwaves of ecstasy through my core.
I can feel him everywhere. His heat, his strength, his dominance.
One hand tangles in my hair again, yanking my head back as he leans over me, his chest pressing against my back, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re mine,” he growls, his voice dark, menacing, and possessive. “Every inch of you. You fucking understand?”
“Yes,” I gasp, my voice breaking, my body trembling with the force of his thrusts. “Yes, Dante, I’m yours.”
He groans, his rhythm faltering for just a moment before he regains control, thrusting harder and deeper until I’m unraveling.
My orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, and I moan loudly, my body clenching around him, milking him until his thrusts become erratic.
He finally buries himself deep inside and comes with a roar, his release flooding me, branding me as his.
For a moment, we stay connected, our breaths are ragged, our hearts pounding in sync with one another. Then, he slowly pulls out, leaving me empty. My body is still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure as I turn over, sitting upright on the table.
Not wanting to break our connection, I bury my head in his chest while wrapping my arms around his waist as I catch my breath.
He hugs me tightly, as if he, too, can’t bear to be parted.
His arms tighten, and he presses his cheek to the top of my head, while softly kissing the mess of my hair created by our urgent lovemaking.
We both laugh softly as we realize at the same time that Dante is still wearing his coat, shirt, and slacks. Our need for each other was so great, he only undid his belt and zipper before claiming me on his dining room table. Sighing, I tighten my arms around him, enjoying the moment of levity.
Without a word, he reaches for the champagne, his hands shaking as he pours two glasses. He hands me one, his eyes locked on mine. Those eyes are possessive, and I know, deep in my soul, that I’m his. Completely, utterly, his.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.