Chapter 9 – POSY #7
I need money. Now. I don’t have the luxury of time.
I could ask for my jewelry back, but that would be obvious as hell. I could wait, work it more naturally into a conversation. I’ll have to do that. Unless—
“Were you serious about proposing?”
Dario is methodically replacing the pieces of our last board game. He loves putting everything back in its place. I swear it’s almost sexual for him.
His hand stills for a second.
“Yes.”
He continues what he’s doing.
“Okay. You can put a ring on it.”
His gaze flies to mine. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Why?”
“I figure I’ll live longer if I’m wearing your ring.” It’s the stone-cold truth.
He nods. It doesn’t make me feel any better that he’s acknowledging that I’m right. He eases the lid on the game, and a change comes over his face. The corners of his lips turn ever-so-slightly up, and his eyes flash like they do when he wins a particularly hard-fought game.
“Take your clothes off and get in bed,” he growls.
The thought makes me shudder. “I want to take a shower. I’m dirty. From earlier.”
A full-blown grin breaks across his face. “Show me.”
My cheeks heat. “No. I’m filthy.”
“Yes,” he flings back. “Do it now, Posy.”
I roll my eyes. It’s undignified, but if that ring is still on the table, I’m going to humor him. I stand, my bare feet sinking into the carpet. Except for kicking off my shoes, I haven’t changed from dinner. I hike the dress to my waist and slide the panties off. They’re utterly ruined.
There are traces of his dried cum on my belly and the triangle of blonde curls I leave when I wax.
He hums his appreciation. He’s still sitting, one leg extended, utterly relaxed, the king of the world.
“Come here,” he beckons, grabbing my wrists when I come close enough, drawing me to stand between his legs, shoving my dress even higher until it’s above my breasts.
He smooths his rough hands over my hips, my back, my thighs, exhaling, his hooded eyelids drifting lower until there’s only the narrowest slit of chocolate brown.
He strokes down my obliques, my muscles twitching under his light touch. A swirl springs to life low in my belly.
He never takes his time like this. I keep waiting for him to get bored, position me how he wants me, speed things up so I don’t have to make the choice to stand still, and I can just go along with what he’s doing.
But instead, he sits there, exploring every inch of me that he can reach, lost in his own head.
I don’t think he’s trying to turn me on. I think he’s actually interested in feeling me, testing the suppleness of my ass by kneading and lifting, measuring the breadth of my hips by tracing the bones.
“What are you doing?” I ask, quiet, for some reason afraid to disturb him.
“I couldn’t touch you when you weren’t here.”
“So it’s a case of don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone?” I stiffen. It’s dumb to feel hurt at this point, but my heart is its own creature. “You never touched me like this before.”
“I didn’t want to.”
There’s a stupid twinge in my chest. I go to step back, but he seizes me around the waist and presses his scratchy cheek to my belly right below my breasts. His lips move on my skin, his breath hot.
“I thought you’d figure it out.”
“Figure what out?”
“That I’m not normal. You’d get scared. I didn’t want you scared.”
“You don’t care if I’m scared now. You want me scared. Isn’t that why you beat Ivano in front of me?”
He nods, and his stubble scrapes me like sandpaper. “You can’t run again, Posy. I can’t protect you if you’re not with me. I can hardly protect you in my own house. You understand that Ivano was a threat to you?”
“He was?”
“He told Renelli I’d found you.” Dario tightens his arms wound around my upper thighs. As if he cares. As if I’m precious to him.
I raise a trembling hand and lightly stroke Dario’s thick black hair. It whispers through my fingers like silk.
“Is Renelli going to kill me?” I ask, voice low.
“I won’t let him.”
“How can you stop him?”
“Trust me.”
“How can I possibly do that?”
I brace myself for irritation. Or maybe a wry shrug. Instead, he straightens, and before I can react, shoves his hand between my legs, grabbing my messy pussy in a punishing grip.
“This is mine.” He squeezes almost to the point of pain, and I rise to my tiptoes, trying to escape the cruel fingers. “ You are mine. No one will take you away from me. Not Renelli. Not you. Do you understand?”
He glares, shaking the hand that cups me, rough and demanding, and despite the biting grip, the vulnerability, the fear—I get wet.
“Yes,” I whine, shame burning my cheeks.
“Go clean this up with a washcloth.” He gives me one last shake. “I want to make you dirty again.”
He releases me, and I step backwards so fast I nearly trip, but I can’t tear my eyes from his face. He raises his hand to his mouth, darting out his tongue to lick the tip of a finger, his gaze turning pitch black, a raw sound like a deep purr vibrating from the back of his throat.
He doesn’t move. He lounges, the lord of his castle, observing me.
As if I’m fascinating. As if he can’t wait to see what I do next. My body floods with awareness, every nerve ending sensitized, ready, on fire.
I’m disconnecting from my thinking brain, completely willing, letting myself fall into the intensity of his expression, the ravenous hunger, the obsession.
He wants me, craves me, and I’ve never had that before so how could I know that that’s my drug, my weakness, the switch that controls my mind.
I’m his, not by my choice, but because he wants me so damn bad.
He has all the power, but I win. I’m the player still standing. It’s better than a rush, purer than a hit. It feels so damn good .
I want more. I want to play .
I free myself of the dress, finally, drop it on the floor, and I saunter off to the bathroom, swishing my hips, prickles dancing up and down my spine.
He’s watching. I know he is.
I take my time in the bathroom. I get the tap water steaming and slide the washcloth under my arms, over my tits and belly, then between my legs, breaking out in goosebumps as the chill air caresses my damp skin.
My nipples stiffen and my pussy throbs. The woman in the mirror is a mess, blonde hair tangled, face flushed.
It’s not me. I can’t tear my eyes away. She looks wild. Alive. Voracious.
What am I going to walk into when I go back out there?
The cold, inscrutable mask? Or the Dario who turns me into this?
Frissons of fear mix with the lust and nerves. Only one way to find out. I wring out the washcloth, hang it up, and head back out to whatever is waiting for me.
Dario is not in the chair anymore. He’s standing at the window, his back to the room. He’s taken off his shirt and pants, leaving only his black boxer briefs. He has the body of a swimmer, broad shoulders and tapered torso. He really is an exquisitely beautiful man.
When he turns, I see the box from his sock drawer clutched in one hand. Oh, no way. He was serious?
Something loosens in my chest, competing with the conflicted feelings already running riot in my brain. Relief or incredulity—I’m not sure which.
“Get on the bed. Prop yourself up on the pillows. Legs spread.” It’s a demand, but it’s not cold. Far from it. He’s not hiding anything. His face blazes with a ferocity I’ve never seen before, a raw hunger so intense it triggers a primitive instinct inside me—run, fight, or submit.
Heat bursts through me in waves. I want this. Now.
I follow his orders. I crawl up the bed on my hands and knees, flashing him my swollen, wet pussy, and settle myself on the pile of fluffy pillows in crisp white linen.
“Like this?” I’ve got my legs straight.
“Knees bent.”
I comply. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I clasp them at my waist, but that feels wrong, so I rest them at my sides.
“Reach behind you. Hold on to the headboard.”
Yes. I do what he says, reveling in the stretch as my back arches and thrusts my swollen breasts up. I’m an offering, a willing victim. He caught me. Now he gets to feast.
Dario stalks to me as if drawn by a magnet, stopping at the foot of the bed to devour me with his eyes.
There’s no other way to describe it. He licks his full lips, and it’s not a practiced move.
I doubt he’s aware he did it. He’s as intent on my body as he’s ever been during a game or sparring in the gym or at his computer, clicking the buttons that win and lose millions in seconds.
More. Much more. I knew he was capable of uncommon intensity, but this is another level. Superhuman. Molten. Insane.
I did this to him. Me. Posy Santoro.
Another wave of heat crashes through me, curling my toes. The feather comforter is too warm underneath me. I want cool cotton against my clammy, bare skin. I want air. I want him. Now.
I drop my knees to the side, thrust my hips, dig my heels into the mattress.
“Dario,” I whine.
He doesn’t mock me, doesn’t tease. He knows I’m hurting—I’m losing my mind—but he’s going to make it feel better. He shoves his boxers down, his cock springing out, fully hard, jutting and thick and ruddy.
Dario kneels on the mattress, level with my feet, sitting back on his heels. He’s taking me in, not just my bared pussy, but my taut nipples, my clenched belly, my flushed face. His gaze lingers there.
“Dario, I want it,” I beg, no embarrassment. I don’t want to play it cool with him anymore. We’ve both left all that behind like a shell. No more roles. No more pretend.
If he’s what he is, I can be whatever I am, too.
“Gimme your left hand first,” he says.
I thrust it forward. He flips open the box revealing a diamond big enough to distract me from the simmering under my skin. My breath catches. I lean forward, close my thighs, tuck my knees to my chest. He holds it up so the dozens of facets catch the light.