9. Dante
DANTE
D ante shifts heavily on the plush leather couch in the penthouse living room, his fingers tracing the distinct, firm curve of his belly. A deep, insidious heat is coiling low and tight in his gut, spreading outward until his nerve endings sing with a desperate, chemical focus.
His pants feel suffocatingly tight; the thin fabric is already damp, soaked through by the sudden, heavy rush of slick pouring from his opening. His cock strains against his underwear, aching with a dull, throbbing pressure that makes him wince.
The biological pull of the fated bond is mutating his sensitivity into a ravenous, unstoppable need. He needs Marco's knot. He needs it immediately, or he feels like he will burn from the inside out.
He forces himself to stand, his legs uncomfortably shaky beneath his weight as another wave of arousal ripples through his lower stomach.
Steadying himself against the wall, he shuffles down the long hallway toward the heavy oak door of Marco's private study.
He doesn't knock. He simply pushes it open, the click of the latch drawing no immediate reaction from the man inside.
The Alpha sits behind a massive, dark mahogany desk, a phone pressed firmly to his ear.
His voice is low, gravelly, and biting with cold authority as he discusses territory logistics and numbers with a capo on the other end of the line.
There is a callous efficiency to the way he operates, a reminder of the violence that cements his position as Don.
Dante's stomach twists, a hard knot of conflicting fear and intoxicating lust tightening within him.
The sudden arrival of the omega causes his scent to explode into the room—a thick, suffocating cloud of sweet honey and heavy, desperate smoke that immediately wars with the sharp, clean scent of the office.
"Marco," Dante says, his voice cracking slightly on the vowels as he steps further into the room. " Please . Look at me. Knot me. I feel completely empty inside."
Marco does not look up from his laptop screen. His eyes remain fixed on a spreadsheet of numbers, his jaw set in a rigid, unyielding line. His alpha pheromones remain strictly controlled, intentionally withheld as a silent reprimand for the interruption.
He completely ignores the omega standing by the door, continuing his conversation into the receiver without a single stutter in his tone. "Yeah, handle the shipment at the docks. No loose ends this time."
Dante's cheeks burn with a volatile mixture of shame and intense physical longing. The rejection makes his core pulse even harder, the slick dripping heavier down the insides of his thighs.
Driven entirely by the biological imperative to submit to his mate, he drops to his hands and knees on the cold, polished wood floor. He begins to crawl across the room like the pet Marco trained him to be, his hips swaying slightly with each slow advancement.
His shirt clings to his torso, the highly sensitive nipples already leaking small drops of milk against the fabric from the sheer intensity of his arousal.
When he finally reaches the side of the massive leather desk chair, he paws weakly at the Alpha's thick, tailored trousers. Marco still doesn't look down, his large hand merely resting on the armrest, fingers twitching in a silent warning. Dante ignores the danger.
With trembling fingers, he reaches for the zipper of Marco’s pants, slowly pulling it down to release the heavy, dark scent of his mate.
Marco's thick cock springs free from his underwear, already semi-hard and pulsing from the proximity of Dante’s needy scent.
Dante wastes no time; he leans forward and wraps his lips around the dark, heavy head of the length, sucking hard. The salty taste of immediate pre-cum hits his tongue, making his mouth water as he slides further down the shaft.
He takes the thick girth deeper into his mouth, his throat constricting around the intrusion until he gags. Tears prick the corners of his eyes, rolling down his flushed cheeks as he bobs his head in a fast, desperate rhythm, his tongue swirling frantically around the underside of the shaft.
Marco’s large hand suddenly leaves the armrest, fisting tightly into Dante's wavy hair to anchor his head, but his voice remains perfectly level as he speaks into the phone. "If the trucks are late, kill the driver. I don't care about the excuses."
The casual violence of the statement sends another rush of heat straight to Dante's groin. He sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks to maximize the suction, his throat burning from the sheer stretch of the Alpha’s size.
He gags loudly against the thick skin, white spit running down his chin and dripping onto Marco's heavy balls.
The Alpha’s cock swells further in his mouth, the thick veins pulsing against Dante’s tongue as Marco's grip on his hair tightens, pushing him down to the root.
The voice on the speakerphone drones on, detailing shipment weights, completely unaware of what is happening on the office floor.
Dante lets out a muffled moan around the heavy length, vibrating his throat to stimulate the sensitive head. Blindly, his hand reaches down toward his own trousers, desperate to rub his leaking, throbbing dick through the fabric, but he freezes before making contact.
No , he reminds himself, his heart hammering against his ribs. Marco hates when I touch myself without his explicit command. He drops his hand back to the floor, enduring the agonizing frustration.
Suddenly, Marco’s patience snaps. He lets out a low, dangerous snarl into the receiver. "Deal with the rest of it later. I'm busy." He slams the phone onto the cradle with a heavy thud.
In one brutal, fluid motion, Marco yanks Dante upward by his hair, pulling him completely off his cock. A long string of spit connects Dante’s swollen, reddened lips to the glistening shaft.
Marco stands up, towering over the omega like an absolute force of nature, his face dark with a mix of irritation and sharp desire. He grabs Dante by the waist and flips him over the edge of the massive desk.
Stacks of paper, file folders, and a heavy silver pen holder scatter across the floor, clattering loudly against the mahogany. Dante’s stomach presses flat against the cool, hard wood of the desk, his cheek smashed down against a stray document as he pants for air.
"You think you can just interrupt my work whenever you feel like a needy whore?" Marco growls, stepping up behind him. He yanks Dante's wet trousers down to his ankles, completely exposing his red, slick-drenched ass to the cold air of the study.
The first spank lands with an explosive crack, Marco's heavy palm making full, brutal contact with the pale flesh. Dante cries out, his entire body jolting forward against the desk as the sharp sting reverberates through his hips.
The pain blooms hot and immediate, but instead of cooling his desire, it sharpens it. Marco doesn't give him a chance to recover; his hand descends again and again, delivering ten, fifteen, twenty hard strikes in a relentless rhythm.
Dante's ass turns a brilliant, burning red, the flesh radiating heat.
With every heavy blow that lands, another frantic gush of slick pours from his stretched hole, lubricating his thighs and dripping onto the dark wood.
His untouched cock leaks heavily, leaving wet smears across the stray papers beneath him.
"Fuck, Marco... please ," Dante begs, his voice hoarse and broken as his hips twitch against the desk. "I need you inside me. Please ."