15. Dante
Dante
I'm waiting outside the ladies' room when Polina emerges.
Her smile has dimmed.
I don't like it.
"Everything okay?"
"Of course." The words come too quickly.
I know evasion when I hear it. I don’t know why the sudden mood change, but I think I have a solution.
I take her hand in mine and lead her away from the crowd. Past the main ballroom, down a service corridor, through a door marked STAFF ONLY.
"Dante, what are you—"
"Shh." I pull her into a darkened hallway.
The music from the party fades.
I turn to face her, backing her against the wall. My hands cage her in, palms flat on either side of her head.
“I can't wait until we're home. So I’m going to fuck you right here, in a hallway, while the most dangerous men in Chicago celebrate our marriage on the other side of the wall.”
A shudder runs through her, but not fear. Her pupils flare. Her breathing changes.
I slide one hand down her side, bunch the emerald silk at her hip, then hook my fingers in the delicate white lace between her legs and rip it with one sharp tug. The ruined scrap falls around her ankle. She’s already wet—shiny, slick, perfect. My cock throbs so hard it hurts.
“Spread.”
She does. Instantly. The obedience hits me like a drug. I reach between her legs and find her already slick, already swollen.
My perfect wife.
I push two fingers inside her and feel her clench.
“Fuck,” I growl against her ear. “This tight cunt gets wetter every time.”
I free my cock, already thick and aching, and line up. One thrust and I bury myself to the hilt. Her mouth opens in a silent cry. Her heat clamps around me so tight it borders on pain.
I pull almost all the way out and slam back in. Her hands fly to my shoulders, nails digging through my jacket.
“Feel that?” Another hard thrust. “That’s your husband claiming what’s his. This pussy belongs to Dante Corsini. No one else gets to touch it. No one else gets to dream about it.”
She whimpers, rocking down to meet me. I grip her ass and lift her so her legs wrap around my waist. The new angle lets me grind deep, the head of my cock dragging over that spot inside that makes her eyes roll back.
“My wife’s sweet, greedy cunt. Every orgasm, every drop of sweetness, is mine.”
I pull back and drive in again, harder. The plaster scrapes my knuckles where I brace beside her head.
“You’re going to come on my cock,” I tell her, voice low and filthy. “Then you’re going to walk back into our wedding party with my come dripping down these pretty thighs and you’re going to smile like you own every last person in that room.”
She moans my name and I feel it in my spine. Her heels dig into my lower back as she tries to pull me deeper. I give her what she begs for—long, punishing strokes that jolt her whole body and make her tits bounce against the low neckline of the dress.
One hand stays under her ass, the other reaches between us to circle her clit with ruthless precision.
“These tits—” I yank the neckline of her dress down and suck one nipple hard, “—are mine too.”
She shatters. Her cunt pulses around me in tight, rhythmic waves. Her cry is loud enough to carry, and I don’t care. I want them to hear. I want every man in that ballroom to know she’s being thoroughly fucked by her husband and loving it.
I follow her over the edge, burying myself to the hilt and empty deep inside her in hot, thick jets, grinding my pelvis against her clit to draw every last tremor from her.
When her shudders fade, I stay inside her, forehead pressed to hers, both of us breathing like we ran a race.
Her eyes are glassy, but the smile that curves her lips is real this time.
“That was fun,” she whispers. “I can’t wait to do it again.”
I laugh, low and dark, already hardening inside her. “Greedy girl.”
I take her hand, my thumb brushing the wedding band I put there.
Polina Corsini. My wife.
I’ll fuck her against every wall in Chicago if that’s what she wants.