Chapter 15 - Dante
Ten days. Ten days of careful distance, of maintaining control, of playing the patient guardian while we both burn.
The study door slams open with enough force to rattle the weapons on my wall. Ana stands in the doorway, chest heaving, green eyes wild with fury that makes my cock instantly hard despite myself.
"Enough!" The word tears from her throat, accent thick with rage.
Before I can react, she grabs the crystal paperweight from my desk and hurls it at my head. I duck, the heavy glass shattering against the wall behind me. Crystal fragments rain down like frozen rain.
"Ten days of this torture!" She storms closer, switching to signs that slash through the air. "Ten days of you watching from that chair. Ten days of your patience driving me insane!"
I remain seated, fingers steepled, watching her rage with the same calm that's apparently been destroying her.
But underneath, my control strains against its leash.
She's magnificent like this: flushed, trembling with anger, ready for war.
My cock throbs against my zipper, already imagining her trembling for different reasons.
"You have something to say?" I type on my tablet, keeping my expression neutral.
She laughs, bitter and sharp. "Something to say? I'm drowning in things to say!" Her hands move in violent signs: "Fight me or… or do something! Stop this waiting!"
The desperation in her signs, the way she stops herself from saying something cruder, makes my breath catch.
She's never been so blunt about what's building between us.
My cock goes rock hard at her demand, at the choice she's throwing at my feet.
I have to adjust myself under the desk, the pressure almost painful.
I stand slowly, and she takes an involuntary step back. Good. She should be wary. Ten days of restraint have worn my control tissue-thin.
"Careful what you demand, stubborn little killer," I sign, moving around the desk with deliberate calm.
Her chin lifts in that defiance I've come to crave. "I'm not afraid of you."
I stop just out of reach, close enough to smell her jasmine perfume mixing with the sharp scent of her anger. My hands move with careful precision: "You should be. Especially now."
Her hand cracks across my face with enough force to turn my head. The slap echoes through the study, sharp and final. The sting radiates through my jaw, nothing compared to the torture I've endured, nothing compared to the night they took my voice. But from her? From my would-be assassin wife?
Something inside me snaps.
Not breaks. Snaps. Like a rope pulled too tight finally giving way.
I grab her wrists before she can strike again, my fingers wrapping around the delicate bones with controlled force.
Using her momentum against her, I spin her and pin her back against the door.
The wood rattles in its frame as I press her wrists above her head, trapped in one of my hands while my body cages her completely.
"Is this what you want?" I ask with my eyes, my gaze, my entire body, still pinning her wrists with my hands.
"Yes," she breathes, eyes blazing with triumph and desire.
I crush my mouth to hers.
Our first kiss is nothing like kisses should be.
It's violent, desperate, ten days of suppressed hunger exploding in a clash of teeth and tongues.
She tastes like rage and espresso, like promise and threat combined.
The kiss aggravates my scarred throat, phantom pain shooting through damaged tissue, but I swallow the discomfort.
She bites my lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and the copper taste makes me growl without sound, but she feels the vibration in my chest pressed against hers.
The pain shoots straight to my cock, making me grind against her involuntarily.
She gasps at the contact, feeling how hard I am, how much I want her.
Her hands fight against my grip on her wrists, not to escape but to touch.
When I don't release them, she makes a frustrated sound against my mouth that nearly undoes me.
My free hand tangles in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss.
She meets my violence with her own, tongue stroking against mine, teeth nipping, taking as much as she's giving.
I lift her without breaking the kiss, her legs wrapping instinctively around my waist. The position brings her core against my cock, and we both groan at the contact.
Even through my pants and her underwear, I can feel her heat, her wetness.
She grinds against me, untutored but desperate, and I have to think about Hadley shipping manifests to keep from coming in my pants like a teenager.
Three strides to my desk. I set her on the edge and she tries to pull me back, but I need more. Need everything.
My hands sweep across the mahogany surface, sending everything crashing to the floor. Contracts scatter like white flags of surrender, the Hadley agreements worth thirty million flutter down like snow. A crystal inkwell explodes against the hardwood, spreading black across important documents.
"The contracts," she starts, eyes following the papers.
I catch her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me, making it clear with every part of me: I don't care about contracts.
The dismissal makes her pupils blow wide with lust. Then I'm kissing down her throat, finding her pulse point and sucking hard enough to leave a dark mark. Mine. Let everyone see she's mine.
She gasps, hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer even as she trembles.
I work the buttons of her blouse with fingers that shake slightly, not from nerves but from need barely leashed.
Simple cotton bra beneath, practical white that somehow makes my cock throb harder than any lace could.
Her nipples are already hard, straining against the fabric.
She moves to cover herself, sudden shyness breaking through her anger. I catch her hands gently but firmly, placing them on the desk beside her hips.
"Trust me," I sign, then wait.
The war plays across her face: desire battling with fear, need fighting against vulnerability. Finally, she nods, just once, leaving herself exposed to my gaze.
"Beautiful," I sign, then add with possessive certainty: "Mine."
I unhook her bra with one hand, revealing perfect breasts topped with pink nipples that beg for my mouth.
The first touch of my tongue to her nipple makes her cry out, back arching off the desk.
I suck hard, then gentle, learning what makes her squirm.
Her other breast gets the same attention while my hand works the first nipple, rolling and pinching until she's gasping my name.
My hands slide up her thighs, pushing her skirt higher. The fabric bunches around her waist, leaving her in just simple white cotton panties that are already soaked through. The sight makes my cock leak precum, desperate to be inside her. But not tonight. Tonight is about her.
She tenses as I hook my fingers in her underwear. I pause, waiting for permission I won't take without.
"Please," she whispers, lifting her hips.
I slide the cotton down her legs slowly, revealing her pussy to my hungry gaze. She's perfect: pink and glistening with arousal, completely bare except for a small patch of dark curls. My mouth actually waters at the sight.
I drop to my knees between her spread thighs, and her eyes go wide with understanding. A don's enforcer on his knees. If my enemies could see me now. But I don't care about anything except the woman trembling above me.
"Dante," she whispers, the first time she's said my name soft like that.
I press kisses to her inner thigh, gentle now, patient. She's shaking, not from fear but from anticipation. Her hands hover uncertainly before finding my hair, fingers threading through the strands but not pulling. Not yet.
The first touch of my tongue to her pussy makes her cry out, hips bucking off the desk. She's already so wet, arousal coating my tongue as I lick from her entrance to her clit in one long stroke. The taste of her makes me groan silently. I'm addicted already. Salt and sweet and uniquely her.
"Oh God," she gasps, thighs trembling on either side of my head.
I work her with my tongue, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan. Circles around her clit make her hips rock. Direct pressure makes her pull my hair. I catalog every response, storing it away for later. When I suck her clit into my mouth, she nearly comes off the desk entirely.
I slide one finger carefully inside her, feeling how tight she is. Virgin tight. The thought makes my cock throb painfully. She clenches around my finger immediately, pussy gripping me like a vise.
"Please," she gasps, not even knowing what she's begging for.
I add a second finger, stretching her carefully, curling forward to find her G-spot. The first brush against it makes her eyes roll back, a stream of Italian curses falling from her lips. I work that spot relentlessly while my tongue circles her clit, building her higher.
Her thighs start to shake, her pussy clenching rhythmically around my fingers. She's close, fighting the building pleasure, scared of the intensity.
I pull back just enough to catch her eyes, signing with my free hand: "Let go. I have you."
Then I seal my mouth over her clit and suck hard while my fingers press that spot inside her.
She breaks immediately, back arching off the desk as her first orgasm crashes through her.
Her pussy clamps down on my fingers, pulsing as waves of pleasure wrack her body.
She's crying out something that might be my name, might be God's, might be both.
I work her through it, gentling my touch as she becomes sensitive, until she's pushing weakly at my shoulders. But I'm not done. Before she can fully come down, I dive back in, tongue replacing my fingers at her entrance. I fuck her with my tongue, tasting her orgasm, feeling her walls flutter.
"I can't," she gasps, but her hips are already moving against my face, chasing something she doesn't understand yet.
My thumb finds her clit, still swollen and sensitive, and I circle it gently while my tongue works inside her. The combination has her climbing again impossibly fast. This time when she comes, she screams, thighs clamping around my head as her whole body convulses.
I keep going, addicted to her taste, to her sounds, to the way she falls apart for me. A third orgasm builds before the second fully ends, and she's sobbing now, overwhelmed by sensation.
"Dante, please, I can't."
But she can. I know she can. I slide three fingers inside her, stretching her more, preparing her for what will come another day.
My tongue on her clit is relentless now, and when I curl my fingers just right, she shatters completely.
This orgasm is different, deeper, longer, her whole body locking up as she gushes around my fingers, wetness coating my hand and chin.
Only then do I pull back, looking up at her wrecked form. She's collapsed on the desk, thighs still trembling, pussy still clenching on nothing. Sweat makes her skin glow. Her breasts rise and fall with ragged breaths. Contracts stick to her back, probably ruined by her sweat and arousal.
I stand, my cock so hard it hurts, pressing painfully against my zipper. She looks at the obvious bulge, then up at my face with hazy confusion.
"You didn't…" she starts, voice hoarse from screaming.
I shake my head, signing: "This was for you. Only you."
The look on her face, surprise mixing with something softer, something dangerous, almost breaks my resolve. She reaches for my belt, but I catch her hands, bringing them to my lips instead. I can taste her on my own skin, and the flavor makes me groan silently.
"But you need," she tries.
"I need you to remember this," I sign. "Remember who made you feel this. Remember who you belong to."
She's suspended there on the precipice between innocence and knowledge, between what was and what will be. Not quite virginity lost, but innocence definitely shattered.
I help her sit up, noting how she winces at the sensitivity between her thighs. My desk is destroyed: papers everywhere, her arousal actually dripping onto the mahogany surface. The whole room smells like sex and jasmine.
Perfect.
She's mine now in every way that matters. And we both know it.