21. Dante
Dante
B y the time I stumble into the penthouse, every muscle screams, every nerve wound tighter than a noose around a traitor’s neck.
Thirty-five goddamn hours without sleep, and logic says I should be dead on my feet.
But logic went out the fucking window the moment Riley Mullvain stormed into my life.
Pom .
My obsession.
My punishment.
My fiercest weakness. And the sole reason sleep is no longer an option.
It’s not protecting her that’s driving me insane. It’s not even my uncle. Not Zver’s name in the mix. No. Nothing will happen to Pom because I’ll burn the entire goddamn city to ashes first.
It’s her .
Her scent.
That damn, defiant tilt of her chin.
Those plush, tempting lips that would sooner snarl I hate you than whisper I’m wet.
Despite every ruthless vow, despite every effort to stay the fuck away, Pom has infiltrated my bones, haunting me with vivid, filthy fantasies I have no goddamn right to crave.
The last time I saw her in a dress that tight, every lush curve screamed fuck-you to every decent thought I’ve ever had. All I could think about was tracing the outline of her panties with my tongue, tasting every goddamn inch of what I can’t have.
Heat ignites through my veins—raw, primal, insatiable heat. An inferno blazing under my skin and more intense than any half-dead man has the right to feel.
I crank the shower dial straight to sub-arctic and step under the brutal spray, icy needles stabbing into my skin, slicing straight through to bone.
A punishment savage enough to rip a hiss between clenched teeth, but nowhere near relief enough to freeze Pom out of my blood.
Not even fucking close.
Blood floods my cock so fast I can’t see straight.
I fist it, too weak to resist the savage hunger to thrust deep into her lush mouth, feel that wet pussy clench around me, bury myself in the temptingly tight rose of her ass.
And that’s exactly what’s going to happen if she doesn’t get the fuck out of Chicago.
Pom deserves better.
Not the kind of man who demands a woman on all fours, tits on shameless display…
Not the kind of man who forces that hem high, baring that perfect pussy for me…
And not the kind of man who’d relentlessly uncover every limit she has, only to push her brutally past each one. Or deliver a sharp, red-hot imprint of his palm on her ass when she resists.
She deserves better.
Better than me.
My strokes quicken as I cup my balls, imagining that perfect, filthy girl on her knees.
A rough growl rips from my throat, echoing through the steam.
Fuck —I want her spread open beneath me, thighs trembling as I split her open with my tongue.
Licking that tight, sweet pussy raw until she shudders, gasping, coming all over my face.
Then burying my cock so deep inside her I feel every tight, slick muscle squeeze around me as she climaxes again and again.
That’s right.
Take that dick all the way, dirty girl…
All…
The…
Way…
My palm slams against the marble so hard it cracks. Fingers curl brutally tight around my shaft, muscles shaking violently beneath the punishing, icy spray….
“Pom!”
To be clear: her name didn’t claw its way out of my throat the first time I came.
Or the second.
Give me a little credit—I’m not a teenager.
But by the third, my knees buckled, my head fell back, and I came so violently hard my cock nearly punched a hole through the wall.
Because Jesus H. Christ, I’d been holding a hell of a lot in, and her name had nowhere left to go but out.
For what feels like forever, I stand shuddering beneath the icy spray, desperate to purge the filthy need, the shame, the raw fucking guilt.
But I haven’t erased her. Not by a mile.
Pom still pulses fiercely through my veins, filling me with her in every brutal heartbeat—every desperate gasp for air.
Finally drained enough for sleep, I stumble from the shower and collapse onto my bed. I’m a hooked fish tossed on deck—no fight left, helpless and resigned to whatever fate awaits.
Then I drown slowly in a surrender so bitter, so sweet, so… Riley …I welcome the merciful comfort of dark?—
Until the shrill buzz of my phone shatters my entire eight minutes of peace.
Groggy. Furious. I jerk awake. Ready to rip someone’s beating heart from their chest.
The phone screen blinks obnoxiously enough that I’m seconds from hurling it through the nearest fucking wall. Then I recognize the flashing red-and-yellow security alert blaring in my face.
Someone is in my office.
No. Not just any someone.
Riley Mullvain is in my office.
Well, well, well…looks like my bad little girl really is begging to be punished.
My pulse kicks into overdrive as I examine the feed, double-checking it’s live.
Fragments of their conversation seep through my exhaustion-fogged brain.
Dillon is ushering her out.
Good.
At least someone always has my back.
But then Pom freezes, wide eyes snagging on the wastebasket. She stares just long enough to confirm my worst suspicion.
She sees it.
The decoy I left for anyone in the world other than her to find.
Clever, reckless, infuriatingly impossible Pom.
But it’s Dillon’s smooth voice that slithers into my ears, sinking in deep and lethal like arsenic.
“Why don’t we go somewhere better suited for your…performance?” my brother purrs.
In three seconds flat, I’m dressed, armed, and storming out the fucking door.
My grip tightens around the phone so brutally the screen fractures.
And just when I thought I’d killed enough fuckers for one day.