Chapter 18
18
G ia
I look at AJ, who sleeps peacefully in her crib.
She sighs, and I follow her cue.
Babies are the cutest thing in the world when they're not crying.
A wave of sadness sweeps over me. Motherhood was always a distant dream to me. So distant I never considered it. I'll never get pregnant or experience the changes in my body. Or hold a baby. Or be able to adopt a child.
Reality is cruel.
I've been in survival mode for so long. I never indulged in making vision boards or daydreaming. Freedom is my main goal, as it has always been. But I didn't think about how much I’d lost in the process.
Not that I'd have much to offer a child.
I'd hate to start life anew somewhere else, adopt a child—it'd never happen except in a fictional world—and have Ciro find out years later and kill us both. He's so sick he'd probably off the kid first and make me watch it.
No, I couldn't do that to anyone or anything. That's why I never considered owning pets, even though I love dogs and cats.
"Lucia."
I hear Dante's voice behind me.
He carries a glass of red wine and hands it to me. He has a serious expression.
"Is everything okay?" I ask, taking it from him.
In the past week, we’ve been able to communicate better. Since we vowed not to worry, a new door has opened on our relationship. I tell myself it's a temporary door, but at least now I allow myself to enjoy these moments with him without guilt.
His facial features soften. "Of course. Work stuff."
I don't ask much about his work. I doubt he'd want to tell me, but I'd like to hear about it. "Good stuff or bad stuff?"
A small smile curls at his lips. "A mix of both."
I nod and take another sip. This wine is delicious, like most of his beverages. Fancy alcohol isn't my specialty, but even I can tell when an expensive drink flows down my throat. "Why aren't you drinking? Are you planning on taking advantage of me?"
He lets out a chuckling sound that has a bitter edge to it. Maybe he could use some alcohol. "I need you to drink for what I'll do to you later."
A shiver of excitement laced with a dash of apprehension goes down my spine. The last few days have been wonderful. I've enjoyed the temporary respite from worries and fears, and I've decided to dive head-first into this doomed affair with him.
I know I'll have to leave—it’s the sensible solution for all involved.
I can't build a life here. I've taken too many wrong turns to follow the GPS of good choices. It’s too late. I have to go where I'll land and not second guess my decisions.
"Is that why you aren't drinking? So you'll be sober, and I'll loosen up?" I ask, taking another swig to make a point. This time, the liquid rolls down my throat even smoother, and my limbs feel incredibly light.
I look at him, and my field of vision shifts and blurs. I yawn, and when I open my mouth to speak, I can't. My eyelids feel heavy and close against my consent. I sway, my body a mass without willpower. I step forward in his direction, but before I fall into his arms, he catches me, and everything fades into black.
I blink, and each tiny eyelid flutter takes tremendous effort.
My eyesight is off. Objects move before I can focus on what I see. The first thing I see is a nightstand. Then, I look up at the ceiling. I blink a few times, willing my vision to improve, and slowly, I see what's around me.
I'm propped upright on the bed in a sitting position. A metal ring bites into my skin when I move my fingers to touch my face. I glance to the side. Handcuffs.
I look at the other one.
Both hands are cuffed to the bed. Which, by the way, isn't mine or Dante's.
Are we in a hotel? Why wouldn’t he just tell me he wanted to bring me somewhere else?
I still wear the clothes I had on earlier: a buttoned shirt and a knee-length skirt. I'm not much of a skirt person, but I’ve worn them for the last few days to entice Dante in the middle of the day. He sure didn't complain when I went online shopping.
Hmmm… I glance around, registering the small fridge, the armoire, and the door that I assume leads to a bathroom. This place is tidy and well-appointed, with a gray color scheme. But it's hard to explain. Doesn't feel like a hotel room.
I don't see any décor on the walls or a hotel group brand name notepad on the nightstand. No phone in sight. So, no hotel.
Is this a sex room in Dante's home?
I never knew he had one. Again, I search for sex paraphernalia and don't see anything within my field of vision.
We're role-playing.
That could be his fantasy.
A surge of lust jolts through me, reaching all my pulse points at the same time. Handcuffs don't thrill me, but I'm sure he has something planned—something dirty and kinky that will have me coming over and over again. The idea sends another shot of sexual awareness through me, and my nipples harden in response.
I hear the door opening, and he walks in wearing what he had on earlier.
His eyes are on me, and for a moment, oxygen is sucked from my lungs and the room. I move my legs, fidgeting, recognizing I'm in the prey role, and he's most definitely a predator. He walks toward me like he knows it, too.
Should I burst his bubble and ask what's happening or go with the flow?
"I should have cuffed your legs, too," he says, erasing the distance between us.
I part my thighs, undulating my hips, silently offering myself to him. "If you had, you wouldn't see this."
"Right. You're a dirty whore, aren't you?" He sits next to me on the bed.
Hmmm. Dirty whore. Degradation usually doesn't turn me on, but the way he says it, his voice so hot and edgy, has the opposite effect than it should. Fuck, I want this man so much—I want to be anything he wants me to be. That's what's scary—what I can't escape.
He touches my knee and makes a circular motion, his bare touch enough to fire me up.
I sink my teeth into my lower lip. I'm bound and can't touch him back, so my response amplifies, and I can barely manage the excitement taking over me. It's already too much, and he hasn't even gotten started.
Dante slides his fingers down my leg and leans into me, his eyes on me. "When I met you, I didn't know you were such a dirty girl."
I swallow. Neither did I. I didn't know what I was, sexually wise—besides frustrated.
He moves his fingers farther along my thigh, then touches my G-string—it's already soaking wet. I break our stare for a moment and look down at his cock, hard in his pants. But he's not willing to give any power away. He cups my face a bit aggressively, holding me to ensure I don't look elsewhere.
"Are you a dirty whore?" he asks, pulling my G-string to the side without taking it off and sliding three fingers into my pussy.
I moan and clamp my thighs around him, desperate for release. He doesn’t move his fingers, pulling my legs apart with his other hand so I won't get the release I crave.
"Are you?" he insists.
"Yes," I hiss. "Yes, I'm a dirty whore."
"See how easy that was?" he asks in a smug voice that makes me wish I could fuck and smack him at the same time.
But honesty has its rewards. He works his digits in and out of me, driving me crazy with deep thrusts. He finger-fucks me with menace like he wants to punish and not pleasure me. I push my hips forward, and soon, an intense ball of heat travels through me until it hits my core—and explodes, spilling a scorching liquid into my veins. My ears buzz, the loud thumps of my heartbeat muffling out any other sound except my labored breathing.
"Do you want more?" he asks, his raspy voice bringing me back to reality.
"Yes," I hiss.
"Do you want more… Gia ?" he asks, his gaze landing on mine as he pronounces my real name like a curse.