1. Shaw #3
My protests died in my throat. “Did you lick me?” My voice betrayed me, rising an octave in shock.
“Huh, I never would have pegged you for the blushing virgin type.” His words dripped with mockery.
Humiliation burned through me. “What the hell is your problem?”
“That’s almost cute,” he cooed, his voice honeyed with false sweetness.
I struggled for words, but my indignation choked me. “No, it’s not cute! None of this is!”
“We’re not in the right room for that.” The casual reference to other rooms, other scenarios, made me wonder what else happened in the building.
Running my fingers through my hair to calm down, it took effort to restrain myself from pacing like a trapped animal. “I don’t get it.”
“I’m grateful you’re not always this dense.” His backhanded compliment left me floundering.
He pressed closer, his confidence suffocating. The heat of his body provided a stark contrast to the cold calculation in his gaze. “Are you going to pretend you haven’t thought about us fucking?”
“Have you?” My voice sounded foreign to my own ears.
“I won’t deny it.”
My body went rigid with a noise of disbelief.
“The thought of you moaning under me as I demolish that obnoxious composure in the most pleasurable way possible has crossed my mind before.” He gave me a heated look. “Watching you come apart piece by piece until you’re begging to come.”
Against my will, an image of what he had described popped into my mind. It deepened the flush on my cheeks because it was a fantasy I had enjoyed in the privacy of my room too many times to count.
“You’re thinking about it right now.” It wasn’t a question but an accusation from someone who could read my darkest desires.
“Why are you doing this?” I hated how breathless I sounded. “You’re not even into guys!”
“Are you sure?” His lips curved into a smile that promised violence disguised as pleasure. “Because I know you are.”
I wanted to ask how he knew, but terror sealed my lips. Trent and my uncle were the only ones whom I’d told the truth about my sexuality. “Why would you think that?”
“You have no idea how you look at me, do you?” The question carried genuine curiosity beneath the mockery.
“How do I look at you?”
He tilted my chin with a crooked finger, forcing me to gaze at his beautiful arrogance. “Like you’re dying for me to fuck you until your voice gives out from screaming my name.”
Hearing my darkest desire spoken aloud by the object of my obsession was worse than any torture the Gennaro family could devise. I tried to protest, but only broken sounds escaped.
“Why don’t we stop talking and do something about it?” His tongue traced the shell of my ear, hot and wet.
I fought against years of wanting Dante. “But this is wrong.”
“Says who?” His voice carried the confidence of someone who made his own rules.
My answer died when his teeth caught my earlobe. My cock hardened traitorously, responding to the man I’d fantasized about since high school.
“Aren’t you ready to surrender to me?” The intensity in his blue eyes made coherent thought impossible.
My “No” emerged as a desperate moan when his fingers traced patterns on my neck.
His hand drifted lower, slipping under my sweater with the confidence of someone who took what he wanted. “I don’t believe you.”
I shuddered as his fingers brushed my stomach. “We’re not doing this.”
“Only because you won’t shut up about it.”
His touch made it too hard to focus. I forced his hand away so I could think through the haze of lust and terror. “What about tomorrow?”
“What about it?”
“Are we supposed to pretend that nothing happened?” It seemed impossible to return to campus, see him in class, and act as though I hadn’t discovered his secret life.
He studied me. “Does that bother you?”
It pained me to admit the truth. “Yes.”
“What are you worried about? Your dumbass friend finding out you love cock?”
“Stop calling him that!” I snapped, finding courage in my anger. “And no, it’s so much more than that.”
“Get over it.” He crushed his mouth against mine, silencing any further protest.
The kiss wasn’t the brutal claiming I expected but a gentle exploration that dismantled my defenses. Dante kissed with a skill that made my ex-boyfriend’s attempts seem clumsy by comparison.
His fingers worked my belt with practiced ease, halfway through my zipper before panic broke through desire. “What are you doing?”
“Taking off your pants.”
“What? No!” I protested, but it was already too late. Dante already had them down my hips.
He pushed me back onto the bed, kneeling to strip away my shoes, pants, and socks with methodical efficiency. “Are you keeping your sweater on for modesty, or should I take care of that, too?”
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” I asked.
The romantic in me still clung to the idea that my first time should mean something.
I wanted to be with the Dante who returned my feelings, not a professional performing a sexual service for a client.
The sheer contradiction between my desperate need for his touch and my terror of crossing the line left me paralyzed beneath him.