26. Riley
Riley
I adjust the lopsided bunny ears and yank down the oversized tee until it barely covers my ass. Still, it’s a million times better than the stripper-wear provided by the Inferno. Because tassels, sheer pink lace, and a thong with a built-in vibrator?
Abso- fucking -lutely not.
I’ve ransacked every luxurious inch of this room, including a walk-in closet so massive it could host the Oscars after-party. Yet somehow, there’s not one respectable pair of panties in sight.
So I settled for silk boxers. Ridiculously soft. Embroidered with a discreet D .
I arch a brow.
Are these Dante’s?
I roll the waistband several times, and miraculously, no duct tape needed. They actually stay put.
With time to kill and drawers to snoop, I tug open another.
Neatly folded socks.
Boring. Next.
The next drawer drops my jaw straight to the center of the fucking earth.
Stacks of cash stare back at me. Thick bundles of crisp hundreds piled so high my fingers twitch with the urge to touch—to fan through every pristine bill like pages of a really dirty book.
More money than I’ll ever see in a lifetime.
Or, knowing my luck, several lifetimes.
Before I can so much as blink, the door flies open, slamming into the wall hard enough to rattle the framed artwork.
Dante fills the doorway, a towering silhouette of dark fury and enough raw, sexual intensity I might actually spontaneously combust.
Instead, I stand there, frozen. Elbow-deep in his secret stash o’ cash, bunny ears askew, as his silk boxers slide perilously toward my knees.
His gaze devours me slowly, deliberately, lingering on every inch of me as if I actually am in tassels and a g-string.
My skin ignites beneath the scorch of his stare.
I straighten my bunny ears defiantly.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing, Pom?”
“Don’t people knock around here?” I fire back instantly, trying not to show the adrenaline spike pounding through my veins.
“Don’t you mean, ‘Don’t people knock, Your Grace?’” His voice is deceptively soft. Dangerously so.
Heat blooms through my belly. Before I can snap back another snarky retort, he commands sharply, “Hands and knees, Riley.”
“What?”
His voice drops to a dark, dangerous rumble. “Either you’re leaving, or you’re on the bed. Now, Pom.”
I could leave.
As easily as that.
Snatch my trench, wrap myself up, and get the hell out of Satan’s lair. Because doing this—whatever reckless insanity this is—is wrong.
So, very, very wrong.
With Dante, right and wrong dissolves like mist beneath the sun. There’s only heat.
Want.
Hunger.
Desire.
And him .
Without another thought—without even understanding what madness possesses me—I move toward the obscenely massive bed, crawling onto it obediently.
He prowls behind me, slow and predatory.
When his large hand closes around my throat, I have to stifle a moan.
His thumb strokes along my pulse, pressing lightly as if committing the frantic rhythm of my heartbeat to memory, savoring every desperate beat like it’s his favorite song.
Then— smack.
I gasp. The sharp sting radiates straight through me, igniting every nerve ending. Blazing heat explodes under my skin, cascading downward until it pools between my thighs.
God, yes.
“Wha—what are you doing?” I pant, barely recognizing my own voice.
“Exactly what you requested.” Dante holds a vintage silver hairbrush in front of my face. Its polished handle gleaming. My cheeks ignite, embarrassment and desire twisting together painfully.
I blink. “You actually have one?”
“You’ll find there’s very little I don’t have, Riley.
Except, perhaps, your pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock.
” He tightens his grip around my throat, tilting my head back to look up at him.
“You have one minute to change your mind and walk away. Otherwise, that’s exactly where it’s going. ”
I don’t move.
I can’t.
My pulse drums furiously beneath his fingers, betraying every defiant thought screaming in my head.
His grip tightens slightly, voice low and ruthless. “Why are you here, Riley? What do you want?”
I try to think of a million things to say. Any excuse for why I would be here. Anything but the truth.
Crack . Another spank. “Do not fucking lie to me.”
“I want you dead,” I whisper, the admission spilling out effortlessly. Almost terrifyingly easy.
Even more terrifying is the raw flash of pain slicing briefly through his gaze.
“I don’t mean you,” I rush to say.
But don’t I?
My head spins. Him. Them. The entire D’Angelo bloodline. They took Da’s life without hesitation, and when that wasn’t enough, they stole my sister too.
He nods slowly, eyes hollow. “Stick to your truth, Pom. You want me dead.” His voice lowers, dark with resignation. “You’ll get your wish soon enough.”
“What does that mean?”
He releases my throat and steps back slightly, his gaze briefly distant, almost detached, before snapping back into focus.
“It means your minute’s up.” His voice drops to a velvet rumble as he lifts my chin with the handle of the brush, forcing my eyes to his. “Undo my pants.”
Undo his… pants .
My pulse spikes, fingers trembling until his low command steadies me. “Belt first, Pom. Then the zipper.”
Right.
I swallow hard and sit back on my heels, breath hitching softly as I obey.
He watches me—darkly intent, ravenous yet perfectly controlled, like a professor evaluating a star pupil, waiting to see if I’ll pass my final exam.
Slowly, deliberately, I release him from the confines of his pants.
His cock springs free, heavy, rigid, and intimidatingly thick. My mouth goes dry, my pulse skyrocketing, because holy shit—Dante D’Angelo is hung like a horse and doesn’t wear underwear.
He fists my hair, wraps it tight around his hand, and tilts my head back, forcing my gaze helplessly onto his.
“Open your mouth, Pom.”
I do.
He slides in, moaning as he does. And somehow, hearing that rumble ripple through his entire body nearly undoes me.
I do what I can to take him because this man is a lot. In every way.
Then, carefully, he begins to move, controlled and deliberate.
Each thrust sets a rhythm that holds my gaze, pinning me exactly where he wants.
The taste is as vividly, devastatingly him as his eyes, his hair, his mouth. His skin is bittersweet and so damn addictive. Pure Dante. Pure sin.
He picks up speed, stealing the breath straight from my lungs.
In. Out. A seductive glide, patient and measured, gentler than I ever imagined Dante capable of. Yet still, all consuming and too much.
Then his hips flex forward, driving deeper. Tears spring to my eyes, hot and sudden, as he nudges the back of my throat, filling my mouth completely. Saliva slicks his length, blurring my vision, but I don’t pull back—I can’t.
Because I want this. The way he fills my mouth completely, brutally, beautifully.
Dante is utterly, devastatingly everything . And I want him.
“ Fuck ,” he groans, head falling back as his hips piston forward, gaining speed. His grip in my hair tightens painfully, deliciously.
Between thrusts, his palm lands sharp on my ass, then grips, then caresses. Each spank intensifying the ache pulsing between my thighs.
His breath quickens, grip brutal. Every thrust and punishing slap of his palm brings a new surge of heat between my legs, until I’m dripping shamelessly beneath him.
“Eyes on me,” he orders, voice rough and broken. “Don’t you fucking dare look away.”
I hold his burning gaze, watching the wild hunger darken his eyes as he thrusts deeper, pushing my limits until he shudders violently, growling Riley as his release floods my throat.
“Swallow,” he commands. Or coaxes. Call it what you will, I do as I’m told. I swallow hard, taking in every last savory drop.
After a minute, he slowly withdraws. His thumb brushes my swollen lower lip… then my cheek, lingering as he studies the rogue tears sliding down my flushed face.
“Good girl,” he murmurs darkly.
Those two words do something to me. Warmth builds in my chest, tugging a shy smile to my lips.
“Now get on your back, Pom. It’s my turn.”