“That’s my girl.”
Dante’s praise goes straight to my head. I don’t want to be his wife or his slut. That’s when I realize the awful truth.
I just want to be his.
On a fucked-up level somewhere deep inside, I still want him to want only me. That’s why I’m not moving. That’s why I hold on when he spanks me again and again until my ass is on fire and I think I may go crazy if something doesn’t happen. I don’t know what I need. I only know the ache inside me stills when he fills me with his cock. I hate that I want it. I hate it even more that the only thing that makes it better is the relentless way in which he drives into me.
I want to break the spell and destroy his hold on me, but all I’m doing is making it worse. So I punish myself and make him take me harder, pushing back every time he pounds his groin against my burning ass. I don’t have to use words to make him do what I want. I just have to goad him. I just have to make him take more and do it rougher.
When he slams into me, I slam back harder. When he spanks my pussy, I push out my ass and offer him more. When he comes, I clench hard enough to milk him dry and pull him deeper. He’s growing hard inside me again before he has time to go soft.
We spend the most part of the night fucking. He makes me come so many times with his mouth and fingers that I’ve stopped counting. He comes in my pussy and then in my ass. We do it all there on the counter, framed by the night and the city lights. We never make it to the bed or to the memories of a different night. If it means I have to let him fuck me until I’m raw, so be it.
When the sun peaks over the horizon, I’m unable to stand on my feet any longer. My legs are shaking, and my ass is a mass of nerve-endings that smolder like coals. Every part of me hurts, even the parts I didn’t allow Dante to touch. He quickly got a handle on my game. The more I provoked him, the harder he went on me, trying to punish me into submission so I’d give up and stop.
It became a competition, both of us set on leaving here as the victor. As he’s still on his feet, looking as fresh as a daisy, I guess that makes me the loser. My only solace is that I didn’t give in.
I don’t even have it in me to argue when he lowers my underskirts and skirt and picks me up in his arms. He carries me to the sofa before sitting down with me in his lap. The ice bucket stands in a puddle of water on the coffee table. Condensation has dripped down the sides and gathered around it. The image reminds me of wasted moments and lost time. For some reason, a deep black hole opens up inside me as a different kind of grief consumes me, the kind that comes with regret.
Taking a bottle of water from the table, he unscrews the cap and holds it to my lips. I drink because I’m thirsty. My ass hurts where it rests on his lap. I’m still amazed that I didn’t freak out when he took his belt to me. Maybe he cured me of that particular fear. Not having the energy to fight him, I allow him to feed me tidbits of food. He follows each bite up with a sip of water, telling me I need to keep hydrated.
Then he makes me lie on my stomach on the sofa and rubs arnica into my backside, reigniting the heat that burns like embers under my skin. When that’s done, he lifts me back into his lap and simply holds me, both of us still dressed in our wedding attire.
I must’ve fallen asleep, because when I open my eyes again the sun is high in the sky. I’m still cradled in Dante’s lap. He’s stroking my loose hair, which means he undid the bun. Indeed, the tiara and pins lie in front of him on the coffee table.
He smiles that sexy, disarming smile that exposes his dimple. “How are you doing?”
I sit up, scramble off his lap, and wipe the hair from my face. It feels as if I’ve been hit by a truck.
He gets to his feet and walks to the kitchen. “You’ll feel better after breakfast.”
I take him in. He’s removed the tie, waistcoat, and jacket, and he’s rolled up his sleeves. His hair falls in a sexy way around his face. His movements are lithe and self-confident. I’ve always loved how he never fumbles in anything he does.
While he goes through the fridge, I slip away and lock myself in the bathroom. As I can’t undo the buttons at the back of the dress myself, I have no choice but to rip them off, ruining the dress in the process. In a way, the act seems fitting.
I have a quick shower and find a robe behind the door that I pull on. When I get back to the kitchen, Dante is serving bacon and eggs onto two plates.
He puts the pan back on the stove and pulls out a chair for me at the table. “Sit.”
When my ass hits the seat, the lingering discomfort reminds me of what we’ve done. My cheeks heat, but I pretend not to be bothered.
“Eat up.” He takes a seat opposite me. “You need your strength.”
After last night? I’ll need more than a breakfast and the freshly squeezed orange juice he pushes my way to recover.
And then he drops the bomb. “We have an appointment with your brother in an hour.”
Chapter
Eighteen
Dante
* * *
Tatiana walks into Teszner Agglomerate like the queen she is with her head held high and her shoulders squared. She’s wearing the off-white dress and matching flats I’d left at the guesthouse for the occasion. Her only adornments are her wedding ring and the Rolex I put on her wrist, not that she needs any. Her long hair is curled down her back. Not a strand is out of place. Her make-up is light and natural, highlighting the softness of her face and the haunted look in those green eyes. But her features are composed. For anyone looking on, she’s the epitome of style and serenity.
She didn’t say a word on the way from the guesthouse, but she doesn’t have to speak for me to know she’s anxious.