Chapter 10 - Elena
I can't believe what's happening as my hands work frantically at his belt and zipper. My body is still humming from the orgasm he just gave me.
The most intense I've ever experienced, and I'm desperate for more. His mouth, his fingers, the way he seems to know exactly how to touch me... it's like he's crawled under my skin, igniting every nerve ending.
Dante Veneziano. My family's enemy, a dangerous man who hours ago I watched incapacitate armed attackers without breaking a sweat, just made me come with his mouth, and I'm already craving more. What the fuck is happening to me?
He helps me push down his pants and briefs, kicking them aside with impatient movements.
When his cock springs free, I can't help the small gasp that escapes me.
It's magnificent—thick, flushed, the head already glistening with precum.
It juts proudly from a nest of dark hair, heavy and imposing like everything else about him.
"See something you like?" he asks, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips.
"Your cock should be in my gallery," I breathe, unable to filter my thoughts. "It's a fucking work of art."
He chuckles. "High praise from a curator of your caliber."
I don't care anymore if I'll regret this in an hour or in twenty-four. This moment belongs to us and the night. I spread my legs wider, reaching down to run my fingers through my own wetness, putting on a show for him.
"I need you inside me," I tell him, watching his eyes darken as he follows the movement of my fingers. "Now."
He doesn't make me wait, positioning himself between my thighs, the head of his cock nudging at my entrance. I'm so wet he slides in easily, filling me completely.
"Fuck," he groans, holding still for a moment as if savoring the sensation. "You're perfect."
He begins to move, setting a steady rhythm that has me gasping with each thrust. His arms bracket me, muscles flexing with the effort of holding himself above me.
His eyes never leave mine, watching every reaction, every flicker of pleasure that crosses my face.
And that goddamn smirk is still there, self-satisfied and knowing.
"Do you," I gasp between thrusts, "always smirk this much?"
His smirk transforms into a genuine smile, softening his features for a moment. "Only when I'm in control."
Before I can reply, he increases his pace, driving deeper, harder. Any clever retort dies in my throat, replaced by a desperate moan. The bed trembles beneath us, the headboard knocking against the wall in a rhythm that would be embarrassing if I had any capacity left for shame.
He is breathtaking above me: a few strands of dark hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, beads of sweat trickling down the defined planes of his chest. I can't look away from the flexing muscles of his abdomen, the way his biceps strain as he holds himself above me.
Dante slides a hand beneath my neck, lowering himself until his chest presses against my breasts, his lips at my ear. "You feel fucking incredible," he whispers, his voice rough with desire. "So tight, so wet for me."
I'm close again, a second orgasm building with surprising speed. But something in me rebels against giving him total control. I'm not a pawn in whatever game is being played between him and my brother. I'm not just collateral damage in their war.
I tap his shoulder. "Dante."
He immediately slows, concern flashing across his features. "Are you alright?"
"I'm great," I assure him, running my hands down his sweat-slick back. "But I want to be on top."
His eyes darken with fresh desire. He wraps an arm around my waist and flips us, never breaking our connection. Suddenly I'm straddling him, his cock somehow deeper from this angle, hitting places inside me that make my vision blur.
I straighten, tossing my hair back, reveling in the way his eyes devour me. His hands grip my hips, guiding but not controlling my movements. I feel powerful like this, watching Dante Veneziano—feared mafia boss, dangerous predator—lying beneath me, looking at me like I'm something precious.
"You're goddamn gorgeous," he breathes, running his hands up to cup my breasts. "Worth dying for."
I shake my head, "If people find out about this, things are really going to get deadly."
"I don't care," he says with startling sincerity. "You're worth everything."
No one has ever spoken to me like this before, as if I'm valuable for who I am, not for my connections or usefulness. It makes me want to give him everything in return.
I begin to bounce, rising and falling on his cock with increasing urgency. My thighs burn with the effort, but the pleasure building inside me eclipses any discomfort. The sound of our bodies meeting is obscenely wet, my arousal making each thrust smoother than the last.
Dante guides my hips, helping me find the perfect angle, the perfect rhythm. His face is a study in passion—jaw clenched, eyes hooded but alert, watching me intently as I ride him.
"You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs, his voice strained. "Taking your pleasure. Taking what you want."
I can feel my orgasm approaching, a tightening deep inside that makes it hard to keep my eyes open. "I'm going to come," I warn him, movements becoming erratic.
In an instant, he pulls me down against his chest, one arm wrapped around my back. With a growl, he plants his feet on the bed and thrusts up into me, hard and fast, taking control again when my strength falters.
The change in angle is all it takes. My pussy tightens around his cock, milking him as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me. It's more intense than before, longer, deeper, stealing my breath and my thoughts.
But Dante doesn't stop. He keeps fucking me through my orgasm, prolonging it until I'm gasping, clutching at his shoulders, overwhelmed by sensation.
Just when I think I can't take any more, he sits up with me still impaled on his cock.
I throw my head back as he grips my thighs, holding me in place as he thrusts up.
His rhythm falters, becomes more erratic, and then I feel him pulse inside me, his cock jerking as he fills me with his release, a deep groan tearing from his throat.
The sensation of him coming inside me… Marking me, claiming me in the most primal way, sends a shudder through my entire body. No man has ever done that before, has ever made me feel so thoroughly possessed.
We stay joined for several moments, both catching our breath. Finally, I roll off him to lie beside him, one hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat gradually slow.
Unlike me, still struggling to regulate my breathing, Dante seems to recover quickly. He's sweaty, his hair disheveled, but otherwise appears unfazed by what just happened between us. It's both impressive and slightly irritating.
"What now?" I ask, voicing the question that's already forming through the post-orgasmic haze.
He turns to look at me, expression thoughtful.
"I have no idea," he admits, surprising me with his candor.
"For a man who likes to plan ahead, I certainly never expected this.
" His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture unexpectedly tender.
"But I do know one thing. You're mine now, and I'm not letting you go anywhere. "
The possessiveness in his voice should frighten me or at least annoy me. Instead, it sends a thrill through my body. "I don't want to go anywhere," I confess, nestling closer to him.
He kisses my forehead gently. "Tomorrow, I'm telling your brother about us."
I pull back, startled. "What? Is that wise?"
"Probably not," he concedes with a slight shrug. "But I'm not hiding this. I don't fear anyone, least of all Marco Rossi." His eyes hold mine, intense and sincere. "I'm proud of you, proud of us. I won't pretend otherwise."
To my horror, I feel tears spring to my eyes.
His words touch something deep inside me, a need I didn't even know I had.
No one has ever said they were proud of me before.
Either they assumed my gallery was just a hobby funded by family money, or they saw it as a struggling business doomed to failure.
But Dante, who knows everything about me, who has seen both my strength and my vulnerability, is proud of me.
I lean in to kiss him, pouring everything I can't yet say into the gesture. He responds with equal fervor, his hand cradling my face as if I'm something precious.
As I drift toward sleep, I feel his fingers gently combing through my tangled hair, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. For the first time in years, I feel completely safe, completely seen.
It's ironic that I've found this feeling in the arms of the most dangerous man in the city, a man who, just hours ago, I considered my family's enemy.