Chapter 3 #3
After all his patience, all his tenderness, he's earned the secret I withheld downstairs. And somehow, giving him my name while he's poised at the entrance of my body feels more intimate than anything we've done tonight.
"Ilona." He rolls my name over his tongue like he's tasting it. "Beautiful Ilona."
"And yours?" I trace my fingers along his jaw as he leans forward to place a tender kiss over my lips. "Your real name this time. I want to know who I'm giving myself to."
His dark eyes hold mine, and that hesitation flickers through them again, so brief I almost miss it. Then his lips curve into that devastating smile, equal parts sin and charm.
"I already told you, jungle flower." He brushes his mouth against mine, the words a warm whisper between us. "Dante. And I plan on having you scream it before the night is through."
Then he thrusts forward, and the world splits apart.
A burst of white pain flares bright and sharp behind my eyelids and then zips through every muscle in my body, curling my toes. It steals my breath, but his mouth finds mine and swallows my cry. He holds perfectly still, buried to the hilt inside me, his forehead pressed to mine.
"Breathe, jungle flower. The pain will pass. Just breathe."
I cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, and I breathe. Slowly, impossibly, the pain recedes, replaced by a fullness that borders on overwhelming.
"It's like you were made for me," he whispers against my lips, the words so quiet I almost don't catch them.
But I do. And they ignite a burning need in my chest that has nothing to do with sex.
"Maybe I was," I whisper back.
Surprise flickers in his eyes, quickly replaced by a tenderness that makes my heart ache.
Then he begins to move.
Long, slow strokes at first, letting my body adjust, letting the pleasure build. With each thrust, the fullness becomes sweeter, the stretch more exquisite. He angles his hips, and suddenly he's hitting a spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
"There." I gasp, arching into him. "Right there, please, don't stop."
He doesn't stop. He drives into that perfect spot over and over, his pace increasing, his groans mingling with my cries. The pressure builds, coiling tighter with every thrust, and when the orgasm crashes through me, I scream his borrowed name loud enough to echo off the glass.
He's not done with me.
Before I can catch my breath, he rolls us over, settling me on top of him. His hands grip my hips, guiding me into a rhythm, and the new angle makes him feel even deeper.
"Ride me." His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. "Let me see that beautiful face while you take your pleasure."
I brace my hands on his chest and move, tentatively at first, testing the angle, the depth, the way his thickness drags against my sensitive walls with every rise and fall.
His skin is hot beneath my palms, slick with a sheen of sweat, and I can feel his heart pounding against my fingertips, racing as fast as my own.
"That's it, jungle flower." His voice is strained, rough at the edges. "Take what you need from me."
I roll my hips experimentally and we both groan at the sensation. His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise, but he doesn't guide me. He lets me set the pace, lets me discover what makes pleasure spike through my core like lightning.
I find a rhythm that has my toes curling inside those ridiculous stilettos, my head falling back, my nails scoring crescent moons into his chest. His eyes never leave my face, watching every expression, every gasp, every moan.
The attention is intoxicating, being seen like this, being wanted like this.
"You're so beautiful riding me." His thumb finds my clit and presses in slow circles. "So fucking perfect. I could watch you forever."
The added pressure is my undoing. The orgasm builds again, impossibly fast, coiling tight and hot in my belly before it snaps and floods through me in waves of liquid fire.
I collapse against his chest with a sob of pleasure, my inner walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, my whole body trembling with the aftershocks.
His arms wrap around me, holding me close, his lips pressing against my sweat-dampened hair as I come down from the high.
Still, he's not done.
He lifts me off him, and I whimper at the loss, but then he's carrying me toward the waterfall. Warm water cascades over us as he walks us beneath the spray, and the sensation of liquid heat on my sensitized skin makes me cry out.
He grips my ass with both hands, lifting me higher against him, and I wrap my arms around his neck to anchor myself.
I hook my stiletto-clad feet behind his back for more leverage, water streaming over our tangled bodies.
Then he slides back inside me with one smooth thrust and I cry out.
I cling to him like he's the only solid thing left in the world.
This time, there's no gentleness. He fucks me with wild abandon, water streaming over our bodies, washing away Luna's paint, revealing the real me beneath. The woman with blue-tipped black hair and light brown eyes and a face that isn't particularly special but seems to captivate him all the same.
"I've never seen a more beautiful jungle flower," he rasps against my throat. "Never."
The pleasure crests one final time, a wave so intense my vision whites out at the edges. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate, his fingers digging bruises into the flesh of my ass as he chases his release alongside mine.
He swells inside me, impossibly thicker, and then he groans my name like a broken prayer as he pulses hot and deep, flooding my core with his release.
The sensation of him coming undone inside me triggers my own shattered cry, and I fall apart in his arms with his borrowed name on my lips, my inner walls milking every last drop from him as the warm water cascades over our trembling bodies.
We stay like that for a long moment, joined and trembling, the warm water washing us clean.
When he finally lowers me to my feet, his movements are achingly gentle.
He washes every inch of me, his hands reverent on my skin.
He rinses my hair, massaging my scalp until I'm boneless and sighing.
He wraps me in a warmed towel and carries me to the bed, taking my shoes off before tucking me beneath the silk sheets like I'm precious.
Then he climbs in beside me and pulls me against his chest.
"When morning comes," he murmurs against my hair, "we'll talk about more nights like this. One taste of you isn't nearly enough, Ilona."
My heart swells with longing and cracks with knowledge. I want that. I want more nights, more of him, more of this feeling of being wanted.
But I know better than to believe in fairy tales.
I don’t know how long we sleep, but I wake to find dawn creeping through the glass walls to paint the sky in shades of pink and gold.
Dante sleeps beside me, one arm thrown over my waist, his breathing deep and even. His long hair drapes over his gorgeous muscles and I’m tempted to run my hands through it just one more time. But I resist.
In the soft morning light, he looks younger somehow. Peaceful. The dangerous edge softened by dreams I'll never know.
I slip from beneath his arm, careful not to wake him. My body aches in unfamiliar ways, tender reminders of everything we did in the dark hours. I should stay. I should let him make good on his promise of more.
But happily ever after isn't in the cards for women like me.
I find his shirt tossed over a nearby chair and pull it over my head, the fabric swimming on my smaller frame. It smells like him, sandalwood and smoke and sex. I breathe it in, committing it to memory.
My heels are by the edge of the bed. I step into them quietly, casting one last look at the man in the bed.
He's beautiful. Kind and patient and everything I never knew I wanted. I'm walking away because that's what I do. If I stay, I'll start to hope, and hope is the most dangerous thing of all. My father would kill it the second he scented it on me.
At least I don't have to worry about consequences. I've been on the pill for years, my one act of rebellion against my father's obsession with controlling my fertility.
One night of freedom. One memory to keep me warm in the cage I'm returning to.
It will have to be enough.
I slip through the door and let it close softly behind me, leaving the woman called jungle flower and her stolen Dante behind.