Chapter Six #2
“You have no idea how long I’ve thought about filling this tight pussy with my cum,” he growls, and his words make my inner walls clench with need.
The thought of having a piece of him inside of me only makes my skin feel hotter.
“You like that, don’t you. Hearing just how much I want to come inside of you. ”
“Yes, I want that,” I cry out, my hips jolting off the floor when he dips his fingers between my legs and strokes my clit. “Dante… oh God!”
"You're mine," he growls, slamming into me,and I feel the pressure rise in my core, promising to be violent. His fingers stroke my clit faster as he hammers into me, and I scream when the orgasm tears through me. My muscles seize and tense seconds before the explosion happens. A delicious feeling spreads through my body, threatening to drown me in its intensity. Dante thrusts harder, his hips slapping against mine in utter abandon. “I’m going to fill your tight little pussy with my cum. Tell me you want it!”
“I want it,” I sob, scratching a line down his back at the threat of another explosion. “Please, Dante, come inside of me.”
His muscles tense, and I feel his shaft swelling inside of me.
His thrusts intensify, pressing against my clit harder, sending me back to the edge.
My pussy clenches hard around him, closing around his shaft like a vise, and he stills, bellowing as he drives his shaft deeper inside of me and floods me with cum.
His cock jerks, swelling more and stretching me until I’m shaking and trembling, my breath wheezing out.
His mouth finds mine as his strokes turn lazy until he stops and then collapses on top of me.
***
Maybe I slip out of consciousness for a second or something as the memory of being carried out of the gym is fuzzy as is the memory of Dante carrying me to his bedroom and laying me on the bed.
I have little recollection of any of that, and the next thing I know, the man is fluffing his pillow for me and brushing his lips over my forehead.
"Stay here," he says, pulling back, but I grab his hand before he can leave. After the out-of-body experience we've just shared, I don't want to be alone. Not even for a second.
“Don’t go,” I whisper, hoping he’ll skip work today and just spend it with me.
“I’m not leaving you, Gia,” he rasps, leaning back down and brushing his mouth over mine. “I’m just going to prepare a bath for you so you won’t be sore later.” I flush at his words, making him laugh. "Just wait for me here, okay? I won't be long."
And with another kiss, he’s gone.
I lie down on my back and stare at the ceiling. I can’t stop the grin that stretches my lips. I squeal and turn my face to the pillow, screaming as I kick my feet in excitement. To the memory of what we just shared and what is going to happen in the future.
It’s clear more than ever that Dante is the one I want to be with.
Maybe I can convince him to stay with me for the day, or we could go out for breakfast, take a stroll, or do whatever it is other people do when they’re together.
Grinning, I reach over to his nightstand to check the time on his phone, wondering just how much time we have before I need to worry about him leaving for work.
I tip his phone to the side to check the time when my gaze is pulled to something else.
My brows wrinkle as I lean forward for a closer look.
My brain doesn’t immediately register what I’m staring at, and when I do, my heart melts.
Next to the lamp, under a paperweight, is a stack of ticket stubs. Dante has been to a couple of my shows in New York, and I blush when I realize that he kept the ticket stubs. For memories, maybe?
I bite my lip and reach for them, smiling as I study them. Slowly, the smile melts from my face when I realize the ticket stubs are from my European shows. I sit up in bed and look through each, my heart racing when I realize that it’s not just one show.
Paris. Vienna. Prague. Milan.
My fingers tremble as I spread them across the bed, organizing them chronologically.
The dates blur together, but the pattern is unmistakable.
Opening night in Paris—he was there. The matinee in Vienna where I’d nearly fumbled a turn—he was there.
The evening performance in Prague when I’d felt so homesick I’d cried in my dressing room—he was there.
Every. Single. One.
But Dante was in New York when my ballet company was touring in Europe. We talked on the phone every morning, and I always felt terrible for calling him because of the time difference. I was touched when he said he didn't mind our morning calls. But…he was in Europe the entire time?
I pick up the stub from the Prague show—the one where I’d called him in tears, telling him how lonely I felt, how much I missed home. I remember his voice, low and soothing, telling me I was doing amazing, that my family was so proud of me. That he was proud of me.
“I wish someone was here to see it,” I’d whispered.
"They are," he’d said. "In spirit."
My stomach twists. Not in spirit. In person. He was there. Probably just leaving the theatre while I poured my heart out to him on the phone, never knowing he was mere blocks away.
I spoke to him about everything. My fears and dreams. And he listened. For three weeks, we talked every morning. I was touched that he kept track of my performance schedule, but Christ, he was lying to me.
But why?
Why hide it? Why not tell me he was there? I would have been thrilled—relieved, even—to know I had a friend in the audience. To know I wasn’t alone in those foreign cities.
Unless…
My eyes drift to the paperweight holding the stubs in place. It looks like just another decorative object on his nightstand. But now, with my stalker’s letters fresh in my mind, I really look at it.
Black glass, expertly crafted. A rose.
I toss the stubs onto the table, and my hand shakes as I reach for the paperweight. The weight of it is solid in my palm, cool and smooth. A black rose made of glass, and it’s exactly like the one my stalker draws on every card and letter.
My stalker.
I glance up when Dante steps into the room, and he stops when he sees what I’m holding. His eyes move to the ticket stubs tossed on the nightstand and then back to my terrified face.
“Gia–”
“Don’t,” I cry out, scrambling back and grabbing the sheets to cover my body. I notice the molten gold in his eyes darken. “Don’t come any closer to me, Dante. Don’t!”
“Gia, I can explain–”
“Explain what?” I cry out, my finger tightening into a death grip on the sheets. “Explain that you’ve been stalking me for months?”
“Gia–”
“You were at all my shows in Europe. Are you going to deny that?”
“No.”
God. “We talked every day, and I felt so horrible about waking you up. But the whole time you were in Europe. Why?"
"Because I was jealous," he admits, his eyes firing up.
"I couldn't tell you I was there, Gia. Watching you dance turns me on, and I knew I couldn't watch you and keep my hands off you if I saw you after a show.
" He runs a hand through his hair, his frustration seeping through.
"Fuck it, do you have any idea how fucking hard it was watching you dance with another man, Gia?
There on the stage was the woman I wanted, and all I could think about was fucking you and strangling the man dancing with you.
You wouldn't have been able to handle the man who followed you to Europe, Gia. He was dangerous and possessive."
“So, you left me flowers and letters instead.”
The hand in his hair pauses, and those wild eyes flash at my words, turning puzzled. “What flowers and letters?”
"You sent me flowers and letters after every show." I pick up the paperweight I dropped earlier and lift it for him to see. "The letters were always signed with a black rose. Christ, are you going to pretend that wasn't you when it's clear you've been lying to me this whole time—"
“Gia,” his voice is calm when he speaks. “What letters are you talking about?”
My brows knit at his question. “The envelope last night, it wasn’t from you?”
I move back when he steps forward, and that seems to irritate him, but he doesn’t make another move to come closer. “Tell me about the letters, Gia.”
His confusion seems genuine—too genuine.
The anger and possessiveness from moments ago have drained from his expression, replaced by something that looks almost like concern.
He’s staring at the paperweight in my hand, then back at me, and there’s a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there before.
But the evidence is right here. The ticket stubs. The black rose. What else am I supposed to think?
“Why?” The word comes out as barely more than a whisper. “If you were going to follow me all the way to Europe, why not just tell me you were there? Why hide?”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t answer.
“And the letters—did you think they were romantic? Because they weren’t. They were intense and—” My voice cracks. “And then they showed up at my apartment. You knew where I lived, Dante. Was that the whole point? Scare me just enough that I’d agree to move in with you?”
“Stop.” The single word is sharp enough to cut through my rising panic. “I didn’t send you any letters, Gia.”
“Then explain the black rose!”
“It’s a paperweight,” he says, his voice strained. “I’ve had it for years. It has nothing to do with—” He stops, runs a hand over his face. “Tell me about the letters. All of them. Everything.”
I consider not telling him, but I know from experience that he won’t stop until I’ve told him everything.
“They started in Europe. Flowers in my dressing room at the end of every show with a white envelope and a letter inside, signed with a black rose. They felt harmless at first. They made me think it was just a fan sending them, but they got a little intense as the tour was winding up.” I turn the paperweight around, staring at the black rose.
“I figured whoever was sending them would stop once I came back, but they didn’t.
And then I received flowers and a letter at my apartment.
That was the envelope you saw last night. ”
“Show me.”
“I got rid of it this morning,” I tell him, shivering when his eyes darken. “But I still have the other notes in my locker at the theatre.”
“I’ll go with you this afternoon to get them.”
“No,” I say before my brain can register. After everything I just learned, I need some time alone to figure things out on my own. Space from a man I believed I knew. “I’ll get them myself.”
I slip out of bed, still clutching the sheet, and head toward my room. I need to shower alone, clear my head, and get out of this apartment before he tries to stop me. Before he convinces me to stay when I need space to think.
“Gia—”
“I just need some time,” I say without looking back. “I’ll bring you the letters later.”
I can tell he wants to argue but he stays silent. The message is clear. Whatever trust was there between us has been shaken and now, I'm not sure what to do. I close the guest room door behind me and lean against it, my heart racing.
I try not to think of the man in his bedroom as I shower quickly, my mind racing.
I need to get out of here. I need space to process everything—the lies, the European tour, the black rose.
I need to think clearly, and I can;t do that with him here.When I emerge from the bathroom, I dress quickly in clothes I dig out of boxes.
I grab my bag and pause at the door, listening. No sound from his room. Good.
I slip out quietly, eternally grateful that Dante isn’t waiting anywhere to stop me when I leave.
My head is reeling as I take the elevator down, intent on storming out when the concierge stops me. He smiles warmly, holding up a small box.
“Ms. Marino, this just arrived for you.”
My stomach drops. “When?”
“Just a few minutes ago. A courier dropped it off.” He hands me the box, and I stare at it like it might explode.
“Did you see who delivered it?”
“Just a standard courier service, miss. Is everything alright?”
I force a smile. “Everything’s fine. Thank you.”
I take the box to a corner of the lobby and study it, noting that there is no return address.
I bring it to my ear and shake it, brows knitting when I hear something rattle inside.
My first guess is that one of my sisters sent me a gift, but the ominous feeling in my stomach makes me think that might not be the case.
I use my keys to tear open the package, screaming and dropping it when I see what’s inside.
Another white envelope, but that’s not what makes my blood run cold.
This time, there are no flowers. Instead, there is a ballerina doll with the eyes scratched out, and in the doll's hand is a black rose. With fingers trembling, I lean down and pick up the envelope and open it, my heart jumping into my throat as I read the note inside.
I never thought you'd betray our love like this. If I can’t have you, I’ll make sure no one can!