Chapter 9 #2
Dante stands by the edge of the bed, his charcoal-gray eyes fixed on me. His gaze is intense, unwavering, as if he’s trying to read every thought that crosses my mind.
“Strip,” he commands, his voice low and firm.
I obey, my fingers trembling slightly as I remove each piece of clothing. The air is cool against my skin, causing goosebumps to rise. Standing naked before him, I feel both vulnerable and empowered.
He approaches, holding a small, sleek toy in his hand. I know what it is. An anal plug. It’s surprisingly pretty for something I know for sure is going to hurt.
“Tonight, we add a new element,” he says, his tone devoid of emotion, yet his eyes betray a flicker of something deeper.
I nod, recalling the list of limits I filled out days ago. This was within the boundaries I set, and when it comes to this, to surrendering, he’s in charge. And while I can’t say I trust him farther than I can throw him, for now, my surrender serves us both.
He guides me to the bed, positioning me on all fours. His hands are steady, thoughtful, even a touch indulgent. He stares at me for an age, a slow sizzle in his eyes that tells me he likes what he sees. Well, if he doesn’t then he needs to have a word with that hot rod in his pants.
I’m caught in a half-laugh, half-terror situation that luckily stays trapped inside as Dante prepares me. A trail of kisses on my neck, shoulders, down my spine.
A generous smearing of lube on the plug.
Then an unfamiliar sensation, a mix of discomfort and curiosity.
His fingers glide between my butt cheeks and oh God, that’s so alien but… interestingly sensual. No, fuck sensual. I’m getting wet. Dripping. Tensing as heat turns into a hot little blaze low in my belly.
“Relax. Breathe,” he instructs, his voice softer now. He steps closer, his eyes ravenously devouring my every expression. “Look at me, Dahlia.”
I look up into his furnace-hot face and whatever he sees in mine makes his cock surge, once, behind his fly. Drags color high into his sculpted cheekbones.
“You’re ready.” It’s an edict. Inescapable.
I nod and inhale deeply, focusing on the rhythm of my breath, feel him place the tip of the toy against my puckered hole and force myself not to tense.
Slowly, he inserts the plug, pausing at intervals to ensure I’m comfortable. Once it’s fully in place, he gently caresses my lower back, a silent gesture of reassurance.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and a shiver runs down my spine, far too thrilled with the praise.
He helps me to my feet, guiding me to stand before him. His eyes roam over my body, taking in every curve, every detail. He circles me once, his fingers brushing over the broad jeweled base of the plug. I clench around it and God, it’s… terrifyingly incredible.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.
I look up at him, meeting his gaze. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
He leans in, his lips brushing against mine in a tender kiss. It’s soft, exploratory, a stark contrast to the intensity of our previous encounters.
As the kiss deepens, I feel a warmth spread through me, a connection forming that’s more than just physical.
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against mine. “Remember, if at any point you want to stop, use your safe word,” he reminds me.
“I remember,” I reply, appreciating his constant emphasis on consent. ?He leads me to the bed, positioning me on my back. His hands explore my body, tracing patterns that ignite every nerve ending. The plug adds a new layer of sensation, intensifying every touch.
He teases me, bringing me to the brink of release before pulling back, a wicked smile playing on his lips.
“Please,” I beg in a voice laced with desperation.
“Not yet,” he replies, his tone teasing.
He continues this dance, pushing me to the edge repeatedly, each time leaving me more desperate than before.
Finally, he leans in, his mouth inches from my core. His tongue flicks out, delivering a single, tantalizing lick.
I gasp and arch towards him, seeking more but he pulls back, his breath ragged. His hands grip the edge of the mattress, shoulders tense.
“You’re testing my control.” His voice is ragged and strained.
I reach out, placing a hand on his cheek. “Then let go,” I whisper.
He hesitates, the internal battle evident in his eyes. But after a moment, he leans in, capturing my lips in a passionate kiss.
His tongue flicks once. Just once.
I nearly come undone.
But he pulls away again, breath once again ragged. And in that split second, I see the deeper crack.
He’s unraveling too.
His jaw is tight with restraint, like he’s one more moan away from doing exactly what he swore he wouldn’t: burying himself inside me and losing control.
He doesn’t. He leaves me wrecked and desperate.
Again.
But every night, he stays longer.
And every time he leaves, he looks back like he’s not sure if walking away is strength… or useless denial.
Dante’s control has been absolute since the moment I woke up in his world.
His rules, his voice, his collar. Every lesson was a calculated domination. And for a while, I let it happen. Not because I was broken. But because I was learning .
Mapping him the same way I map firewalls—slowly, carefully, until I find the crack.
Today, I find it.
We’re in the training room, blueprints and security layers projected across the wall, Dante pacing behind me like a dark predator. His instructions are crisp. Authoritative and clinical. But I’m no longer distracted by his voice or the heat of his gaze.
I’m watching his hands. The subtle twitch of his jaw when I reroute a protocol before he finishes describing it.
“I said we’d come at it from the west perimeter,” he says, his tone low, edged with warning.
“And that would be smart,” I reply, not looking up. “If we wanted to trigger every tripwire embedded since 2020. But I found an unpatched exploit in their archival vault from the south conduit. Quiet. Efficient. And invisible—unless you’re actually looking.”
Silence stretches behind me.
I finally glance over my shoulder.
He’s staring at me, his black gaze unreadable. The screen’s glow catches the gold at his throat and the faint scar that traces the line of his collarbone.
God, he’s beautiful. Dangerous. Deadly, even. But fuck, I want to cut myself on all his edges and bleed out my needs.
Right now, though, I catch something else.
And for the first time he looks… uncertain .
“You disapprove of my correction, Mr. O’Driscoll?” I say, and I know how mocking I sound, but I don’t stop. Because if he’s the king of cold control, I’m the queen of exploiting cracks. It’s what’s earned me my name, respect and a nice, fat bank balance.
He tilts his head slightly. “Are you disobeying me, Specter?”
That name. On his lips. A warning. A stroke right between my legs. God. “I’m disputing you. There’s a difference. I might be your submissive in the bedroom but you’re my partner in this. Not your puppet.”
He doesn’t speak. That alone is a victory.
I rise from my seat slowly, turning to face him fully. The tension is a live wire between us. I feel it in the quickening of my pulse, in the way his eyes drop—just for a fraction of a second—to my mouth before dragging back up. That too is new .
He’s always touched me with brutal intent but never looked at me like I might have teeth too.
I take a step forward. He doesn’t move.
Another step.
We’re almost toe to toe now, and I can feel the heat from his body, smell the clean, subtle scent of his cologne—leather and something darker, like storm-wet stone. My chin lifts a fraction higher.
“What's the matter, Dante?” I whisper. “Worried I might know what I'm doing?”
Something flickers in his eyes. A warning. A spark.
And then—he rocks back.
Just a fraction of a pace. Barely noticeable. But I see it.
I feel it.
Power, hot and electric, floods me. Not the kind you steal through backdoors and data leaks. Not the kind you broadcast through encrypted channels. This is personal. Immediate . This is me, forcing the predator to blink first.
But the moment is razor-thin.
Because he regroups just as fast.
In a blink, he’s in front of me again, hand at my throat—not choking, just holding. Reminding. The collar around my neck hums as if reacting to his touch.
His breath is hot against my cheek, and the way he looks at me now isn’t the same. It’s not cold calculation. It’s need. Frustration. And something else that looks a lot like?—
“You have no idea what you’re playing with,” he says, voice low and raw. “And I don’t remember giving you permission to use my name.”
“Maybe I do have some idea what I’m playing with,” I say, breathless. “And also we’re not in a scene. Is that what it’s called?”
His thumb drags lightly along my jaw, slow, possessive. “That’s where you’re wrong. We’re always in a scene. You want to top from the bottom now, little thief? See if you can tame the monster?”
“No,” I murmur, leaning just enough into his hold to make my point. “I want to prove that the monster can bleed too.”
There’s a beat of silence. One breath. Two.
Then he lets go.
Steps back.
Again.
And this time, he stays there .
“Training’s done for today,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Go. Cool off.”
I should feel dismissed. Controlled.
But I don’t. I feel victorious.
And when I walk past him, I keep my chin high, my spine straight, and the memory of his hesitation burns like a brand between my shoulder blades.
Dante O’Driscoll is cracking.
And I’m the queen wielding the hammer that’s driving in the wedge.