Chapter 16 - Ana
Ten days. Ten days of marriage, and I’m still on his desk with my thighs spread and his taste on my lips.
Dante still stands between my legs, having just guided me upright, his hands possessive on my hips, thumbs rubbing gentle circles as if apologizing for the brutality of the last hour.
The mahogany beneath my bare ass is slick—my fluids and his spit pooling on the polished wood, the stench of sex and sweat rising like incense.
The desk is a graveyard of paperwork, contracts and ledgers and legal documents all ruined, crumpled and torn, speckled with saliva, cum, and, soon enough, thin streaks of my blood.
Not a single square inch of this surface is untouched by evidence of what he just did to me.
Three times. Three. Dante made me shatter, my body rebelling against the limits I thought I had, my mind blurring at the edges from too much sensation.
I’m trembling still, unsure if the aftershocks are from pleasure or the way his eyes stay fixed on me—black and bottomless and so, so hungry.
He looks as if he’s considering eating me alive.
His face is raw with exertion, jaw clenched and cheeks flushed; the stubble lining his jaw is darkened with my slick, his chin marked with faint crescent wounds from where I raked him with my nails.
I see my reflection in his gaze: skirt rucked up to my waist, blouse hanging open on one arm, the rest of it torn and balled on the floor.
My throat is ringed in bruises and bite marks, hot and tender where he marked me.
I see the bloom of his fingerprints on my inner thighs, a mosaic of need and violence.
There are bruises on my wrists, too, evidence of the way he pinned me down as I screamed his name into the bones of the desk.
There is nothing clinical or gentle about this.
There never was. Virgins are supposed to be terrified, aren’t they?
But I’m not afraid. Not even as I notice the way his cock, still hard and leaking, strains against the fine wool of his suit pants.
The bulge is obscene, the outline branded into my retinas.
I should be afraid of what’s about to happen, but fear is a distant pulse, nearly drowned out by the rush of heat that floods me, violent and absolute.
My thighs clench around his hips, my calves shaking from the strain of holding him close.
I want him closer still. He reads my desperation and grins—crooked and wolfish and cruel, but also, somehow, shy.
For a moment we are two animals trying to decide if this is going to be mating or murder.
He brings his hands up to frame my face, palms warm and slightly rough on my cheeks.
He’s careful not to touch my hair, as if remembering the way I flinched the first time he tried.
Instead, he holds me steady as he leans in, mouth hovering just over my lips.
His breath, ragged and sweet with the aftertaste of me, tingles on my tongue.
When he kisses me, it’s not gentle. It’s the same as before—consuming, greedy, like he’s sure this is our only chance and he needs to memorize the taste of me before someone comes to drag him away.
I feel the friction of his stubble burn against my chin, my jaw, the soft underside of my throat.
He bites my lower lip until I whimper and then soothes the wound with his tongue, whispering something in Italian I can’t catch.
He pulls back, just enough that his eyes can scan my body again.
This time, slower. I see the calculation in his stare, the way he catalogs every wound he’s made and every place where I still haven’t learned to shield myself from him.
There’s a sick pleasure in knowing I’m exposed, that he could ruin me with a word, but also that he chooses not to.
For now. My heart drums against my ribs, frantic and giddy.
I can’t tell if it’s because I trust him or because I’m too far gone to care about trust at all.
His gaze slides down, pausing on the place where my thighs meet, the insides glistening with the aftermath of his mouth.
I shift, self-conscious, but he just brings his thumb up, presses it into the wetness, and then slides the same thumb between his lips.
He tastes me, closes his eyes, and lets out a shuddering breath.
When he opens them, something has changed.
There’s pride, yes, but also awe. Like I’m a miracle he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch.
“Fair is fair,” I rasp, my voice wrecked from the screaming, from the ways he’s ripped me open. “You had your taste.”
I reach for his belt, hands unsteady but determined.
The buckle is cold, the leather stiff, and my fingers fumble for a moment before getting the prong free.
He doesn’t stop me, just watches, arms folded behind his back—a pose of submission that’s also a threat.
He could overpower me at any second, but he wants to see what I’ll do when I get my way.
I manage to free the belt, and his pants slide down a fraction.
I grab the waistband and tug, exposing the line of dark hair that disappears down to where his cock waits, thick and angry and already leaking.
I freeze, suddenly unsure, adrenaline crashing into embarrassment.
He’s huge. I mean, physically, it’s almost comedic—like someone designed a weapon, not a body part.
The head glistens, flushed nearly purple, and I see the veins pulsing along the shaft.
I can’t help the little gasp that escapes me.
It’s a sound you’d make if you saw a python or a loaded gun pointed at your face.
He sees my fear, and for the first time since I met him, Dante looks almost bashful. He places one hand gently over mine, steadying my grip. “Ana,” he signs, his free hand spelling out my name slow and careful. “Tonight is just about you.”
“No,” I whisper, and I use my legs to pull him closer, locking my ankles behind his thighs. I can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles strain not to crush me. “I want all of you. I want this.”
He hesitates, his hands shaking as he brushes the hair from my face. Then he bends down and kisses me again, softer this time. I taste myself on his lips, and it’s strangely sweet. I shiver, my body responding with renewed urgency. I can’t believe I’m already greedy for more.
He lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging at my entrance.
I’m slick and still swollen from what came before, but he’s careful, pressing forward only a fraction at a time.
The first push is sharp—pain like a knife, a splitting from the inside, and my whole body locks up.
I dig my nails into his biceps, my teeth clench so hard I taste iron.
He freezes, immediately, and strokes my cheek with his thumb.
“Breathe,” he signs, one-handed, eyes urgent but soft. “Relax. I won’t hurt you.”
I want to laugh at that—what is hurt, after all, except a kind of invasion? A forced intimacy. But I do as he says. I pull air into my lungs, slow and deliberate, and force my muscles to unclench. He waits, impossibly patient, until I give him a nod.
He starts again, using only the weight of his hips to ease further inside.
The stretch is obscene, bordering on unbearable.
I feel the pop as he passes the last resistance, and then he’s all the way in, buried to the hilt.
I can’t breathe for a moment. My world is reduced to the fullness, the sensation of being split in half and also being completed, like this is the shape I was always meant to make.
Dante’s face is pressed to my shoulder. His breath is hot and ragged in the hollow of my neck, his body shaking with the effort not to move. I realize, with a strange flash of pleasure, that he’s just as overwhelmed as I am. He’s holding himself back, clinging to the last shreds of self-control.
We stay like that, frozen. He inside me, me impaled and gasping and unsure if I want to scream or beg or cry. I feel my body adjust, the muscles softening, the pain easing into a dull ache and then, miraculously, into something like pleasure. I want movement. I need it.
I tilt my hips up, trying to get him deeper, and the motion makes us both gasp.
He looks at me—wild, unblinking—and then, finally, he starts to move.
Slow, almost reverent at first, withdrawing just enough to make me feel the loss before pushing back in.
Each thrust is a measured pressure, a testing of boundaries.
I cling to him, wrapping my arms around his neck, anchoring myself so I don’t slip or shatter again.
The friction is exquisite, a raw scrape that quickly turns slick.
I feel the blood, too, a hot trickle down my thigh, but it mingles with our juices and I don’t care.
It’s proof of what’s real, what’s happening.
Gradually, he picks up the pace. The desk rocks beneath us, the sound of flesh on flesh obscenely loud in the quiet room.
Papers slide to the floor, pens roll off the edge and clatter onto the tile.
The rhythm builds, and with it my own arousal.
I can feel something coiling inside me again, impossible and undeniable.
The desk creaks beneath us, my body sliding back with each thrust, and then Dante's hands are on my hips, holding me steady, anchoring me to him as he drives deeper.
I'm crying now, I realize. Tears streaming hot down my cheeks, not from pain but from the overwhelming intensity.
I can't speak, can't think, can only feel as he fills me over and over.
The world narrows to the points where our bodies connect—his cock inside me, his hands on my skin, his breath in my hair.
He shifts his angle, and suddenly he's hitting something that makes white sparks explode behind my eyes.
I cry out, a sound I've never made before, half-sob and half-prayer.
He does it again, deliberately, watching my face as I unravel.
His hands tighten on my hips, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave more bruises, and I welcome them. I want his marks all over me.
The pressure builds, impossible and relentless. I didn't think I could come again, not after what he'd already done to me with his mouth, but this is different. This is deeper, more primal. My body clenches around him, milking him, and I feel him swell even larger inside me.
"Please," I gasp, not even sure what I'm begging for. "Please, Dante."
His rhythm falters at the sound of his name.
His eyes lock with mine, and I see something break in him—the last thread of restraint snapping.
He surges forward, one hand tangling in my hair despite my earlier flinching, the other gripping my thigh so hard I'll find finger-shaped bruises tomorrow.
His hips slam into mine with brutal force, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the study.
The orgasm hits me like a gunshot—sudden, violent, and all-consuming. I scream his name as my body convulses around him, waves of pleasure so intense they border on pain washing through me. My vision blurs, my fingernails drawing blood as they rake down his back through his shirt.
He follows me over the edge with a silent roar, his body going rigid as he spills inside me. I feel the hot pulse of him, filling me completely, marking me from the inside. We stay locked together, trembling and gasping, as the aftershocks ripple through us.
Slowly, the world comes back into focus. The ruined desk beneath me. The torn contracts. The scent of sex and sweat and blood heavy in the air. Dante's weight pressing me down, his breath ragged against my neck.
For a long, long moment, the only sound in the room is our breathing, both of us gasping for air like we’ve been drowned and resurrected.
What have we done?
What can’t be undone?
He finally pulls out, and the emptiness is immediate, sharp.
I wince, legs shaking, the slick mess of him and me dripping from between my thighs onto the ruined paperwork.
There’s blood, too. My blood and his cum, a pinkish stain spreading over ten million dollars’ worth of contracts.
My innocence—if I ever had any—soaking into mahogany and vellum and flesh.
He helps me sit up, his movements reverent now, almost apologetic. He pulls a crisp handkerchief from his pocket and dabs away the worst of the mess, gentle as anything. I can barely look at him, the enormity of what we’ve done settling over me like a shroud.
My shirt is a loss, buttons scattered across the office like teeth after a fistfight. Dante shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, the wool still warm from his body and stinking of both of us—cigarettes, sweat, and sex.
This is ridiculous. This is irreversible.
"This changes nothing," I say, voice small.
He nods, but his hands move differently. They say: "Changes everything."