11. Melody
Melody
I wake with a start, wrapped in buttery soft sheets. The faint scent of sandalwood and sage tickles my nose, and I reach up to rub it, but my hand smacks me in the face. Mother fuck. I hiss in annoyance, and something beside me stirs.
Wait, what?
Beside me is that asshole in a suit—except he's not in a suit.
The gray duvet is tossed aside, wrapped around me, and his torso is on display.
And what a fucking display it is. I've never dated a gym rat, but I imagine his body is what they aspire to.
Lean muscle and six—six!!—abs, all covered in his weird tattoos.
Faces. So many faces. All of them slightly distorted, as if someone ran their hand through a wet oil painting.
Men and women of all races, shapes, sizes.
His neck is nearly blacked out with thin tendrils toward his jaw.
I rake my gaze down to those skeletal hands, a rich black between each and every outlined bone.
He looks like the fucking Grim Reaper if the Grim Reaper had to take a job in porn.
I flick my gaze back up to his face and scrunch my nose. I never noticed it before, but he has a tiny smattering of freckles. They're very light, just a shade or two darker than his minimal tan. All in all, he looks… sinfully good.
And then it hits me.
The motherfucker drugged me, kidnapped me, and married me. And now I'm in his house, wrapped up in his bed, with a sore spot on my arm. I don't quite remember how that got there, but I definitely remember what happened when he chased me. When he caught me.
My cheeks burn at the memory of his thick cock buried to the hilt. The primal growling he emitted when he came. And the way I was so… so into it when he chased me.
I should not be turned on by a fucking stalker chasing me through his home. I should not be sneakily thinking of ways to get him to chase me again.
I should, however, be running for safety, out the door and out of his life. My rational side is screaming at me to get up, to get dressed, to leave immediately. But the irrational side of me… kind of likes it?
Maybe I can get a good therapist with all his rich-boy money. Get some medication. Get back on my feet. Disappear to Mexico like I've dreamed of for so long.
"Good morning, wife." Fuck.
I freeze, barely daring to peek at him. Those piercing green eyes seem almost soft in the morning light, but beneath all of his luxurious trappings is a psycho stalker.
Unperturbed by my fear, he sits up and stretches, yawning loudly.
His hair is perfectly tousled. The jet black strands lay effortlessly across his brow, while the undercut sides look like he just walked out of the fanciest salon in the city.
He sweeps his hair back and out of his face, revealing those freckles again.
Seven of them dot his forehead, two sets of three in near-perfect vertical lines, and the seventh between the top two.
Another one decorates his chin, and the last is on his left cheekbone.
I hate to say it, but it's almost endearing. Tiny imperfections in this perfect-seeming appearance. I have no doubt that he has enough money to get them lasered off—if that's a thing—but he chose not to. I wonder why, then shove the thought out of my mind with prejudice.
"Do I have something on my face?" He rubs at his jawline, furrowing his brow. "Or were you just admiring your husband?"
"Fuck, no." I grimace and turn away, the heat of my blush crawling up my cheeks.
Quicker than I can react, he envelopes me with his arms. Spooning me. I roll my eyes and try to wriggle free when I notice something hellishly hot and intensely hard poking into my lower back. Is that… oh, fuck no.
"Forgive me, Melody. You're just such a delightful sight." He kisses the side of my head and lets out a satisfied rumble, rubbing his cock against me.
"Absolutely not. No fuckin' way. Last night was… a mistake. A weird, high-intensity mistake." I yank the covers up to hide my face.
"Was it, now? So you weren't soaking your panties for me? You weren't begging me to fuck you?"
God, kill me. I seriously wish he'd just fucking kill me and get it over with already. Even if he's not associated with Phil or Charlie, this whole marriage thing has to be a sham. Why does he want me to pop out a kid so bad? Surely he has enough money to hire a surrogate or something, right?
Trying desperately to ignore his advances, I peek around the room and notice the broken lamps, picture frames, and a mirror still on the wall—shattered in its frame.
He must notice my attention is elsewhere because he pops up and follows my gaze. "Ah, that. If you promise to be a good girl, I'll build you your own rage room in the basement."
It absolutely shouldn't, but the term good girl washes over me, and a shiver runs down my spine. I shake my head and glare at him, willing the building heat between my thighs to go the fuck away.
"Well, if you're going to be like that , then don't mind me." He throws the blankets down and reveals he's not wearing pants. Or underwear. His thick, veiny, uncut cock stands at attention and I gulp.
I can't even look away as he snakes one hand down those defined abs, down to the base of his cock. He grips it and stifles a groan—I clench my thighs together—while staring directly into my eyes.
Dante bites his lower lip as he takes long, slow, deliberate strokes of his cock.
His foreskin glides smoothly over his slick head, coated in precum already.
Under my gaze, the strokes become faster, more frantic.
His breaths puff out with effort, little grunts of pleasure sneaking through as well.
I'm absolutely mesmerized by the sight of it.
To my dismay, heat builds between my legs.
"Oh, fuck yes, watch me. Watch me, love. Keep those gorgeous eyes on me," Dante moans out, working his cock faster still.
I'm entranced. The juxtaposition between the pink head of his cock against the rich black of his tattoos has me fixating on him. Precum pours down the back of his hand, glistening against the dark ink. I fucking hate him—why do I want to lick him so bad?
"You're so fucking beautiful, Melody," Dante grunts. "Watch me. Watch me come undone for you."
"No," I whisper. "No. Stop."
He instantly stills, giving me a questioning look, still panting. His hips flex almost imperceptibly, but I watch the head of his cock poke through his fist.
Fuck. "I want it."
That's all he was waiting for, apparently, because he pounces on me like a mountain lion. I let out a gasp as he invades me again. He fills me so completely, almost to my limit, but nothing about it hurts . No, he doesn't hurt me. He drags his cock back, and I feel every single inch of him.
"That's all it takes, hmm? Good to know," he murmurs in my ear. The whispering heat of his breath raises goosebumps down my neck. He snaps his hips, and I can't help but squeal at the sudden jolt of pleasure. He lets out a dark chuckle. "You're mine, Melody. You're fucking mine."
I shake my head, but it's half-hearted. He laughs again, still thrusting into me, but adjusts his position. With a deft movement, he shifts me further up the bed. Dante grips one tattooed hand on top of the headboard while sliding the other down to my waist. He towers above me, and I just stare.
The angles of his face really aren't bad.
Hell, he's an incredibly attractive guy.
The dark tendrils swirling up his neck do continue down his chest but fade into a collage of faces.
So many faces. All of them obscured in some way, but I swear, all of their eyes stare directly at me.
Some sick part of me, deep down, revels in the faux-exhibitionism.
My rational side tells me to twist my legs around and kick him off, run away, scream bloody murder—but she's not in charge right now.
No, the hedonist in me is in control. And she wants to get railed .
"Keep your eyes on me, love," Dante commands. I snap my gaze back to his face and suck in a breath. The intensity of his gaze makes my rational side wither away into dust. I want this man to fuck me. Hard.
"You say I'm yours?" I pant out. "Show me. Fucking show me."
His hand snakes from my waist to my clit, and he applies the perfect amount of pressure.
He never touches the most sensitive part, but circles around it.
It's exactly how I like it, and I can't hold back the moans building in my chest. They only spur him on.
He rocks his hips and toys with my clit until I'm practically screaming his goddamn name.
"Just like that, love." His praising words make a delicious shiver run down my spine. "You're getting close, darling. Don't hold back. Come on my cock."
Words are beyond me, but I think he's getting closer, too.
His thrusts come faster and harder, and every muscle in my body tenses.
I can feel the orgasm building to an explosive height.
Heat and pressure and everything collide, and I let out a scream as the waves of pleasure crash through my system.
My hands—seeming to have a mind of their own—slap to his hips, and I clench down with everything I have.
Dante's eyes disappear behind his lids, and he traps his lower lip between his teeth, letting out the most incredible masculine grunt.
His hips slow, and I feel the warmth of his cum flooding me, spilling out, pooling underneath me.
He collapses down and traps me underneath him.
We silently huff out breaths together. Little aftershocks course through my body until it's all too much—I push him off. He, thankfully, doesn't resist.
He rolls to his side and gives me a lazy smile. "I told you. You're mine."