Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Valentina
Once lunch is over and the plates cleared, Moretti stands and extends his hand, palm up, an invitation wrapped in command.
His eyes are dark, flared. Without him saying a single word, I know what he wants.
“Moretti…”
And really, is it any surprise? I’m still thinking about my brother, about what happened this morning. My mind is racing to understand everything, to put the missing pieces together.
But men like Moretti are different.
Live by the sword. Die by the sword.
He has needs, and since he tap dances on the edge of danger, there’s nothing like sex to truly feel alive and vital.
I don’t fool myself that this is anything more than that.
“Don’t tell me no, wife.”
I might… If he didn’t look at me that way. As if I’m his whole world and he’ll come undone if I refuse him.
“Valentina…” His voice is gruff. A little hoarse. A little desperate.
Damn him.
“Take my hand.”
Even though I’m tender from earlier and making love with this man is the last thing I should want to do, I slowly reach for him.
When we touch, the contact is electric.
His skin is warm and rough against mine. The bruise on his knuckles brushes my wrist, and I feel the faint scab there, a reminder of the price he’s willing to pay to keep me.
Instead of pulling away, I curl my fingers tighter, letting him feel how my hand trembles—not from dread, but from the sharp, undeniable need building inside me.
“Fuck. I can’t get enough of you, Princess.”
We leave the patio together, the sunlight sliding off my shoulders as we step inside.
The house is refreshingly cool and quiet, the faint scent of linseed oil drifting from the art room he prepared for me. That small gesture still sits heavy in my chest, proof that he listens, that he sees me beyond the Russo name he stole.
He doesn’t speak, but he strokes the back of my hand in slow, deliberate circles, and every pass sends sparks racing up my arm, straight to my breasts, straight to the ache between my thighs.
I glance at the nursery door as we pass, the buttery yellow walls visible through the cracked opening, the crib waiting.
My stomach flips—fear, anticipation, a treacherous thread of longing all tangled together. Could I already be pregnant? The thought should terrify me. But it doesn’t, making me wonder what’s wrong with me.
I shouldn’t want the child of the man who kidnapped me and forced me down the aisle.
His grip tightens fractionally, and he guides us toward the master suite without a word. The door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds final, intimate, sealing us away from the world.
The room is exactly as we left it—sheets still rumpled, the faint scent of us lingering in the air.
The room is still mostly dark from the way he closed the blinds, and he doesn’t turn on the light, weaving intimacy around us.
Dante releases my hand only to slide both palms up my arms, slow and possessive, his touch raising goose bumps that chase straight to my nipples.
They pebble hard beneath the sundress, aching for his mouth, for the scrape of his teeth.
How is this possible?
A couple of hours ago I was a virgin. Now I remember his touch, and I yearn for more.
Without thinking, I lean into him, my body already surrendering, no matter what my mind tells me.
All that matters is the heat of his chest against my breasts, the hard ridge of his cock pressing into my belly through his jeans, the low rumble I feel more than hear when he exhales against my hair.
He hooks his fingers beneath the thin straps of the sundress and eases them down my shoulders.
The fabric whispers over my skin, pooling at my waist, then falling to my feet in a soft heap.
I stand in front of him wearing nothing but a pale lace bra and panties. The cool air whispers over my bare stomach and my thighs.
He sweeps his gaze down my body, every bit as potent as a physical touch—slow, thorough, claiming every inch.
My nipples strain against the lace, and he brushes the backs of his knuckles across one peak. Thought it’s nothing more than a light graze, my knees weaken.
A soft sound escapes me, half sigh, half plea, and his mouth curves in that dark, satisfied way that always undoes me.
He doesn’t speak. He simply reaches behind me, unclasps the bra with one hand, and lets it fall.
My breasts spill free, heavy and sensitive, and the sudden exposure sends a rush of heat straight to my core. I feel myself grow wetter, the lace between my legs already damp, clinging.
Dante settles his hands on my hips and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my panties.
Slowly, deliberately, he peels them down kneeling as he does so until his face is level with the apex of my thighs.
The sight of him there—dark head bowed, powerful shoulders flexing—steals the air from my lungs. His breath ghosts over my mound, warm and teasing, and my clit throbs in response, aching for contact. “Oh, God.”
I thread my fingers into his hair without meaning to, needing something to hold on to as he presses a single open-mouthed kiss just above my slit.
The heat of his tongue flicks out, tasting me, and my hips jerk forward on instinct.
He grips my ass, holding me steady, and the possessive pressure of his fingers digging into my flesh makes me moan low in my throat.
He rises again, stripping his own clothes with efficient grace—henley gone, gun placed on top of the nightstand, jeans shoved down, boots kicked aside—until he stands naked and hard, cock thick and flushed, the head already glistening.
The sight of him sends another wave of heat between my legs. I want him inside me. I want the weight of him, the stretch, the relentless rhythm that always drags me under.
He backs me toward the bed until my knees hit the mattress. I sit, then lie back when he presses a hand to my chest, his palm warm over my racing heart. The sheets are cool against my overheated skin, a shocking contrast that makes my nipples tighten even more.
Dante follows me down, settling between my spread thighs, his cock heavy against my belly. He doesn’t enter me yet. Instead he braces on one forearm and uses the other hand to cup my breast, thumb circling the nipple until I arch off the bed, gasping.
Every nerve ending feels alive, singing under his touch. He lowers his head and takes the peak into his mouth, sucking hard, then softer, then hard again, the contrast pulling a broken sound from me.
I fist my hands in the sheets.
Without me consciously being aware of it, I rock my hips up, seeking friction. He gives it, sliding his cock along my slit, coating himself in my wetness without pushing inside. “Moretti…”
“Dante.” Instantly, harshly, he corrects me. “You called me that earlier. Give it to me again.”
He continues the tease, the exquisite torture.
I feel every ridge, every vein, the blunt head nudging my clit on each slow glide, and my thighs tremble with the need to have him deeper.
And he captures my other nipple, tormenting me horribly.
When he releases it, he lifts his head and locks his gaze on mine.
he intensity there strips me bare—possession, hunger, and something softer, something that looks dangerously like devotion.
My chest tightens. This is the man who stole me, who forced my hand in marriage, who still holds my family’s future in his grasp.
Yet right now he is also the man who prepared an art room for me, who showed me the nursery with quiet hope in his gaze, who fought for me at the altar.
The contradiction crashes through me, emotional and physical at once, and fresh wetness floods between my legs.
He feels it.
His cock jerks against my clit, and a low growl vibrates through his chest.
Shifting, he aligns the massive head at my entrance. “Are you ready for me?”
“Yes.” The word is a hiss, a plea.
And since I’m wet, he enters me, pushing in a single, long, relentless stroke until he’s seated to the hilt.
Whimpering, I wiggle around, trying to adjust to his girth.
The stretch burns beautifully, filling me completely.
God help me. I can’t do this.
“Moretti.” I moan, the sound raw.
“Take every bit of me.” He stills, letting me feel every inch, every throb.
Then, slowly, he draws his hips draw back to surge forward again, setting a deep, measured rhythm that drags across that perfect spot inside me with every thrust.
Pleasure coils tighter, spiraling up from where we’re joined, spreading through my belly, my breasts, my fingertips.
“Wrap your legs around my waist.”
I’m not sure I have the strength to do that, but he guides me into position.
“That’s it. Now dig in your heels.”
The man is a fiend.
Once he has me even more vulnerable, he gives it to me—harder, faster, the slap of skin on skin filling the room alongside my broken gasps and his low, ragged breaths.
He eases a hand between us, finding my clit and circling in tight, slick strokes that match the pace of his cock.
The dual sensation is overwhelming.
My orgasm builds fast, ruthless, and I chase it, instinctively lifting myself to meet every thrust.
“My woman.” He gaze never leaves my face.
His eyes are dark and fierce, and he drinks in every flicker of pleasure across my face.
“That’s it. Come for me, Valentina. Fucking come. Now.”
His guttural demand shoves me over the edge.
I shatter, the climax ripping through me in pulsing waves, my walls clamping down around him, milking him as I cry out, body bowing off the mattress.
But my husband is relentless and doesn’t stop.
Instead he rides me through it, drawing it out until I’m shaking, oversensitive, tears pricking the corners of my eyes from the intensity.
Only then does he let himself go.
“Valentina.” His rhythm turns wild, hips snapping, cock driving deep again and again until he buries himself to the root and comes with a primal sound that vibrates through both of us.
I feel the hot rush of him inside me, pulse after pulse, and the knowledge that he’s filling me, marking me, sends an aftershock rippling through my spent body.
He collapses over me, careful to keep some of his weight on his forearms. He presses his forehead to mine, and our rapid breaths mingle.
For long moments we simply lie there, hearts hammering in sync, skin slick with sweat, the scent of sex heavy in the air.
He strokes a stray strand of my hair, gentle now, and I feel the shift in him—the same man who commanded my pleasure moments ago now cradling me like I’m something—someone—precious.
That juxtaposition settles deep in me, warm and terrifying. And right.
Despite myself, I turn my face into his neck.
As I inhale the dark, masculine scent of him, I let the truth wash over me: I don’t just crave his body. I crave this joining.
I want him.
His possession.
And that makes him the most dangerous man on the planet.