Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Dante
Another pointless meeting. I watched the men on both sides of the table bickering over scraps of territory, exhaustion settling deep in my bones.
Thomas, my secretary, leaned down behind me, murmuring the rest of today's schedule in my ear.
"Sir, at four-thirty, you need to review last month's dock accounts with the finance director.
At six, you have dinner with the Irish on Fifth Avenue.
Also, the manager at Diamond Club called—says there's a fresh shipment of French champagne tonight.
The captains are all there waiting for you to join the celebration. "
I leaned back in my chair, fingers tapping absently on the table.
In the past, I wouldn't have hesitated. I'd head straight to the club, lose myself in liquor and the roar of the crew celebrating. That was how I burned off rage.
But now? I didn't want to go anywhere. My mind was full of the woman back at the Manor.
Natasha. My lips curved without permission. I straightened my face when I caught Thomas's confused look.
This past month, I'd caught myself drifting during these droning meetings more times than I could count. Thinking about her body going tense when I cornered her against the wall. Her fingers trembling when she came undone.
The distraction was starting to piss me off.
I stood. The argument around the table died instantly. Every eye locked on me. I looked at Thomas. "Get the car. I'm going back to the Manor."
Thomas's face flickered with confusion. He glanced at his planner, hesitating. "Sir, the Irish meeting's been on the books for two weeks. If we cancel now, they'll take it as disrespect."
I turned my head. "Do I need to say it twice?"
Thomas snapped his mouth shut and stepped back.
I swept my gaze across the table at the family heads still sitting there like idiots.
"You can keep arguing," I said flatly. "When you figure it out, let me know. Until then, I'm not stepping foot in this room again."
I walked out.
I knew there was nothing urgent waiting for me at the Manor. No deals to close. No papers to sign. I'd probably just sit in my study reading the paper or take a few laps around the garden.
But I wanted to go back.
The armored SUV glided down the highway. I leaned against the leather seat, watching buildings blur past the window. The cabin was silent. No shouting. No bullshit. The quiet let me finally think about how off I'd been acting today.
I'd never disrupted my schedule for a woman. Never gave "going home" any real meaning.
But I had to admit it—my focus on Natasha had gone way past what I'd planned.
Bad sign. I should hate anything I couldn't control. But Natasha? I couldn't muster disgust. Hell, I felt something almost... sweet. Something I'd never felt with Vera.
The car passed through the Manor's iron gates and stopped at the front entrance.
I stepped out, handing my black cashmere coat to Richard as he came forward. I loosened my tie. "Where is she?"
Richard took the coat. "Madam went to the studio in the south wing after lunch. She asked not to be disturbed, so the maids haven't brought her tea."
I waved him off and headed through the long corridor toward the south wing.
Since the studio had been finished, it'd become Natasha's favorite place.
I reached the door and pushed it open softly.
Afternoon light poured through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, flooding the room. Dust motes drifted in the beams. In the center stood a wooden easel. Beside it, a huge red velvet sofa.
Natasha was asleep on it.
I walked toward her slowly. She wore a white knit dress, her body curled slightly, strands of golden-brown hair spilling across the red cushions. Her breathing was even. Her lashes cast tiny shadows. Her lips were parted.
Completely defenseless. Still that same innocent girl.
My gaze drifted to the canvas beside her. A half-finished portrait of a man.
Me.
The likeness was unmistakable. Only a woman who'd loved me for a long time could capture those details so perfectly.
Something fierce stirred in my chest.
I turned back to Natasha and noticed a magazine spread open across her chest.
I bent down and lifted it off her. The cover read in bold letters:
Pregnancy Guide: Welcoming Your First Baby.
She really planned to have my child. To tie us together permanently. And damn it, I didn't hate the idea.
I had to admit—at first, all of this had been a game. Treating her well, spoiling her publicly—it was all to get under Vera's skin. I wanted every mobster in New York to know how much I adored my new wife. Wanted every word of it to reach Vera's ears and drive her insane with jealousy.
But over the past month, every time I held this woman at night, every time she looked at me with those clear green eyes, something shifted.
Now, when I looked at Natasha, Vera didn't even cross my mind. I didn't care what corner of the world she was hiding in. I only cared about the woman in front of me.
Spending the rest of my life with Natasha? That wasn't a bad option at all. I wanted her. I wanted her to carry my child. I wanted this marriage—born from a ridiculous runaway bride disaster—to become real.
Fabric rustled.
Natasha stirred.
Her eyes fluttered open, blinking in confusion. Then they locked on me. The moment she recognized me, her lips curved into a soft smile. She sat up, her voice husky with sleep.
"Dante, why are you back so early?"
I tossed the pregnancy magazine onto the glass coffee table and touched her face.
"If I hadn't come back early, I'd never have known someone in this manor was violating my portrait rights."
Natasha followed my gaze to the uncovered easel. Her face went scarlet. She jumped up, trying to dart past me toward the canvas, stammering an explanation.
"It's just a practice piece. I'm not finished. Don't look at it yet."
I didn't let her escape.
I grabbed her wrist and yanked her hard into my chest.
Her back slammed against me. I locked my arms around her, trapping her completely. My other hand gripped her chin, forcing her to tilt her head back.
I leaned down, my voice dangerous in her ear. "You're a little too obsessed with me, aren't you, Natasha? At night, you cling to me in bed, and during the day, you sneak in here to paint my portrait."
Natasha flushed crimson. She bit her lip, a flash of indignation in her eyes. But she lifted her chin stubbornly.
"You're my lawful husband. I said my vows in front of a priest. Painting my own husband is completely legal and reasonable."
I looked at her defiant little face, and the last thread of my restraint snapped. I laughed coldly. "You're absolutely right. I am your lawful husband. And since my wife is so obsessed with my body, it's my duty as a husband to satisfy her properly."
I spun her around and shoved her forward with deliberate force.
Her hips slammed against the edge of the worktable.
Before she could catch her breath or utter a protest, I pressed my palm firmly between her shoulder blades, forcing her down until her cheek lay flat against the cool, paint-stained wood.
"Dante," she gasped, her voice a trembling mix of shock and dark anticipation.
I ignored her plea, my hands sliding possessively up the backs of her smooth thighs.
I shoved the hem of her dress up around her waist, exposing the delicate lace of her panties and the soft curve of her ass.
She trembled under my touch, her fingers scrabbling uselessly against the table's edge, nails scraping lightly over dried flecks of pigment.
My eyes caught on a wide, soft paintbrush lying nearby—one of her favorites for blending colors. I picked it up, dragging the silky bristles in a torturously slow line up the sensitive inside of her bare thigh. Natasha jerked hard, a startled, needy whimper escaping her parted lips.
"How many times have you painted me, Natasha?" I asked. The brush teased higher, circling the edge of her panties, brushing so lightly it was almost cruel.
"I-I don't—" she stammered, her voice shaking with arousal. "This is the first time."
My hand came down hard on her ass with a sharp crack that echoed through the quiet studio. She yelped, her body jolting forward, the sting blooming into heat across her skin.
"Try again," I growled. "And don't lie to me."
She squeezed her eyes shut, cheeks burning crimson. "I-I lost count," she whispered, barely audible. "Dozens of times. Maybe more."
Satisfaction surged through me, hot and possessive. I tossed the brush aside, leaning over her until my mouth brushed her ear, my breath hot against her neck. "Then it's time I collect my licensing fees, little artist."
With one swift motion, I yanked her panties down to her knees and thrust into her in one brutal, deep stroke.
Natasha cried out sharply, her hands slamming flat against the table as her body arched in overwhelming sensation.
She was so tight, so wet, clenching around me like velvet fire.
I didn't give her a moment to adjust. I pulled back almost fully and drove in again, setting a punishing, relentless rhythm that made the heavy table scrape noisily across the floor with every powerful thrust. Her moans grew louder, rawer, filling the studio with the obscene sounds of skin slapping skin and her desperate cries.
"You wanted this," I snarled, my fingers digging bruises into her hips as I held her exactly where I wanted her. "Every time you painted me, staring at my body, imagining my hands on you, you were begging for this, weren't you?"
"Yes," she sobbed, her voice breaking beautifully. "Yes, please, Dante, harder—"
I reached around, finding her swollen clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles that had her entire body going rigid.
Her orgasm hit her like a wave, her inner walls pulsing and squeezing me so intensely I nearly came undone right then.
She cried out my name, shaking violently beneath me, her juices coating my cock as she shattered.
I flipped her over onto her back in one smooth motion, sweeping paintbrushes, tubes of oil paint, and half-finished sketches onto the floor in a colorful clatter.
I pulled her roughly to the table's edge, her legs wrapping instinctively around my waist. I drove back into her slick heat, even deeper in this position, watching every flicker of ecstasy cross her face—flushed and dazed, lips swollen and parted, eyes glassy with overwhelming pleasure.
I leaned down and claimed her mouth in a rough, possessive kiss, swallowing her broken moans as I fucked her without mercy. The taste of her—sweet, desperate—drove me wild. My hand tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp.
"Feeling good, Mrs. Romanov?" I muttered fiercely against her lips, thrusting deep and grinding against her with every stroke.
Natasha's breath hitched, her cheeks flushed, but she lifted her chin defiantly even as her body clenched around me. "No," she spat, voice shaky but stubborn. "Not even close."
My grin turned feral. "Wrong answer."
I slammed into her without mercy, pounding her with brutal, relentless force—deep, punishing strokes that made the table slam against the wall.
Every thrust was savage, grinding against that sweet spot inside her until she was screaming, her nails no longer teasing but clawing desperately at my shoulders.
"Ah! Fuck, wait—" Natasha gasped, her defiance shattering as her legs shook violently around my waist. "Too much, please, I can't—"
"You can," I snarled, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while I fucked her even harder, hips snapping like a storm. "You're going to take every fucking inch until you break, Natasha. Beg all you want."
"Please! I'm sorry! I'm gonna—" Her voice cracked into sobs of overwhelming pleasure, body convulsing wildly beneath me, but I didn't slow down, driving her higher and higher without pity.
Her eyes rolled back, her screams turning into broken whimpers, until finally her whole body went limp—shuddering one last time before she passed out cold, tears of ecstasy still glistening on her lashes.
The pressure built unbearably. I buried myself to the hilt one final time and came hard, pulsing deep inside her as I spilled pulse after pulse of hot release.
We stayed locked together, breathing ragged, bodies slick with sweat and paint smudges, the studio silent except for the slowing rhythm of our heartbeats.
When I finally pulled out, she was completely spent. I scooped her up off the table and carried her back to the red velvet sofa, covering her with a clean blanket.
She couldn't even open her eyes.
I walked to the corner and finally picked up my phone, which had been buzzing nonstop on the floor.
Whoever had been calling me better have a damn good reason. If this wasn't a genuine emergency—something that could shake the foundations of this manor—they were going to spend tonight hanging off the George Washington Bridge.
I pressed the power button. The screen lit up.
One unread message from an unsaved number. Just one line.
"I miss you so much, Dante."