April #2
Another slap. Different cheek. The impact sent want flooding through her. She could feel the imprint of his palm, could feel her skin heating, could feel the way her body responded—getting wetter, clenching tighter, chasing.
"Good," he said, and the approval in his voice did something to her.
April watched his reflection move—the focus on his face, the way he looked at her like she was something rare he'd claimed and intended to keep.
Through the glass, shadows shifted at the poker table. Barely visible. Just enough to remind her they were there.
Dante's rhythm changed, deeper and harder, chasing. His fingers dug into her hip hard enough to bruise.
The third slap landed just as he hit something inside her that made stars explode behind April's eyes.
"Fuck—Dante—"
"That's right. Keep your eyes on me."
April stared into his eyes, entire body was coiling tighter.
Her thighs trembled with the effort of holding the position.
She lost the rhythm trying to hold it. Her core was clenching around him rhythmically now, chasing release.
Every thrust hit deeper, harder, finding that spot that made her vision blur.
She could feel it building—that bright, sharp edge of pleasure that meant she was close.
"I'm—" she tried to say, but couldn't finish. Couldn't form words when her body was doing this.
"I know," Dante said, voice rough. "I can feel you. You're close."
Somewhere past the glass, a chair scraped.
Movement—one of the men standing, stretching, walking toward the bar. His path took him past the alcove.
“Do you think they can see me?” she asked, voice breathless.
Dante leaned over her, his tongue licked her ear. “Let them.”
His hand slid from her hip to between her legs, finding her clit with the same precision he'd used for everything else. The touch was almost too much—one more sensation when she was already drowning in them.
April's breath came in short, desperate gasps. Her hands were slipping on the mahogany, scrambling for purchase as the pleasure wound tighter, tighter, threatening to snap.
"Come for me," Dante said, and his fingers circled her clit once, twice—
April shattered.
Her body responded with a grip that made him groan, his rhythm faltering. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel the waves of pleasure crashing through her while he kept moving, kept fucking her through it, wringing every last aftershock from her trembling body.
Dante groaned, his rhythm faltering.
“Merda.” The curse slipped out, before he could leash it. His composure snapped for just a second, eyes slamming shut, breath shuddering like she’d broken something deep.
He caught himself a heartbeat later, grip tightening on her hips, control slamming back into place. But she’d felt it. He’d cracked. Just for her. Dante's breathing had changed—rougher, less controlled. His grip shifted to both hips, pulling her back onto him with each thrust.
"I'm going to—" He didn't finish the sentence.
He pulled out suddenly, and April felt the hot spill of him across her back, marking her.
For a moment, neither of them moved. April's cheek pressed against the cool mahogany. Her breathing ragged, ass still stinging from his hand. Her body felt loose, used and satisfied in a way she'd never experienced.
Dante's palm settled on her lower back, spreading the evidence across her skin more deliberately. "They'll know you were claimed.”
“Do you want them to know?" he asked, satisfaction thick in his voice.
The question itself was incident, and hotter than it should be.
She licked her lips, "Yes."
Dante didn't step away. He drew her against his chest instead, one arm firm at her back.
April could feel his heartbeat against her cheek. His hand moved in slow circles on her back—holding her in the delay.
He was holding her.
Actual holding, not “transitioning to the next activity” holding.
The same man who just fucked her on his desk with six guys twenty feet away is now doing the emotional equivalent of a cool-down stretch. She hadn’t known those two things could exist in the same person.
Dante pulled tissues from another drawer and cleaned her back with the same measured focus he'd used while ruining her.
"You're a mess," he said, echoing his earlier assessment.
"You're the one who—"
"I know." He cleaned her like he was closing a deal—nothing careless, nothing unfinished
April’s chest ached. She'd walked in here angry. This had been a prank. A power play. A very well-timed orgasm. Just fun. Just a moment. Just… everything she hadn’t known she wanted.
It was too gentle. Too careful.
He turned her to face him, his hand cupping her jaw. "How do you feel?"
April's brain did a systems check. Everything was still attached. Mostly functional. Operating at reduced capacity but in a way that felt earned.
"Like I just got hit by a very expensive car," she said. "And it stopped to make sure I was okay after."
His mouth curved. "That's not an answer."
"I feel good," she said. Then, because he was still waiting: "Really good."
"Anything you didn't like?" His thumb traced her jaw.
The question itself was doing things to her. The way he asked it like her answer mattered, like he'd adjust the entire operation based on her feedback.
"No," she said. Then, because honesty was apparently her thing now: "You're very intense. I thought it might be too much." She bit her lip. "It wasn't."
"Good." His eyes went dark with approval. "Anything you want more of next time?"
Next time. Her brain filed that under "Promises People Make After Good Sex" alongside "I'll call you" and "This changes everything." Men said a lot of things. Promises that felt binding in the moment and optional by a Tuesday lunch break.
"I'll let you know," April said. She reached into his pocket and pulled out her panties. "Trying to keep souvenirs?”
His eyebrow lifted, not stopping her. She stepped back and slid them on with all the dignity she could muster. “I’m not walking though a club without panties on.”
His mouth curved. "I have other ways of remembering."
April smoothed her dress. "I'm sure you do."
She looked at this man, who remained perfectly put together after everything, and decided it wasn't fair. Especially when she was sure that, even after being put to rights, every man in the club would be able to tell exactly what she'd been up to.
She grabbed his tie, undid the knot, and looped it around her wrist. Her hand slid up to ruffle his hair, tousling the untouchable, then down his chest. "Now you're the one who looks ruined."
Dante smirked. "I am always happy to be ruined by you, principessa."
She took his hand and walked toward the door.
His men's eyes stayed on their cards.