Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Mine.
I think about the manly fingers digging into my cheeks, preventing me from looking away, making me witness the act he’s performing, the pleasure he finds inside me, how ugly it is, how real. I think about the thick veins on his hands and the ink that covers them. I haven’t yet seen the letters on his fingers beneath his rings. He never takes them off. But I don’t have to see them to know what those letters spell—the name of his dead brother.
And even as he’s fucking me raw and taking his pleasure, he’s punishing me for that, for the life my father and brother took from him.
He can call it what he wants, but he didn’t ruin me out of love. Dante Morici ruined me not only for my fiancé but also for all other men out of revenge. I thought I escaped the invisible chains he shackled me with when I outran him. As it turns out, I’ve been a fool again.
Our past left a mark that cuts too deep to heal.
Our present is a vicious circle I can never escape.
Chapter
Ten
Dante
* * *
My intention was to keep Noah busy so Tatiana could get some sleep. She needs the rest. Her nightmares keep her up long enough every night. Yet here I am, buried balls-deep in the only woman I’ve ever chased in my life.
I pull out, inviting a wince from her. I’ve been too rough. Again. I know it. But I lose control with her. I lose sight of the end-goal. I lose sight of everything except her wishes. I made it my business to understand her needs… her gestures, her body language, the subtle looks she thinks I don’t notice, the way the light shifts in her eyes. I pride myself on understanding her better than she knows herself, but I’m starting to wonder if I know myself, if I even remember why I’m doing this.
Getting lost in my own head while I’m still inside her is fucked-up, even for me, so I shove the doubt aside and focus on what needs to be done, which is taking care of her. I get off her, climb to my feet, and adjust my clothes. I don’t miss how Tatiana closes her legs and hides my cum that dribbles down her thighs as if I weren’t present in what we just did.
She lies quietly while I untie her and rub her wrists, but when I take the T-shirt to pull it over her head so I can carry her to the shower, she stops me with a hand on my arm.
I got to know her body in the darkness of her bedroom because we couldn’t attract attention with the light, and I gave her orgasms with my hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her moans. I want to take her with the lights on. I want to do it in the open, not the act itself but without hiding the fact that she’s mine. I want to hear that throaty voice when she comes, and I don’t give a damn if the whole world hears her screams. I want to show everyone she belongs to me. I want to see her, all of her, but if she couldn’t do that before, now she won’t. If that’s her way of punishing me, it’s damn effective.
Of course, I could force her. I could simply tear the T-shirt off her body and feast on those perfect tits. Speed things up. She’ll melt beneath my hands and on my tongue. Her nipples are sensitive. She loves breast play. But that’s the one thing I won’t force. Her other decisions may not be her own, but her body is the one subject over which she has all the say. That’s how it’s always been. It’s not going to change. If she doesn’t want to give me everything, I’ll just have to work harder for it. Be patient.
Respecting her boundaries, I stand. “Shower?”
She declines with a firm, “No,” making it clear she doesn’t want comfort from me.
The only thing she’s willing to take is pleasure—as long as it’s nothing like before.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand. A text message notification lights up the screen. It’s from my investigator.
Found them.
I pick up the phone and type a quick reply.
Where?
Detroit. Boston.
I consider the next steps.
Send me the details.
Tatiana sits up and pulls her knees to her chest. She follows me with her gaze as I pocket the phone and walk to the bathroom.
I still taste her on my tongue. I’ve never forgotten how she tastes when she comes. Her arousal is as musky and intoxicating as her kisses are sweet and innocent. I remember every flavor—the salt on her skin when I made her sweat and the mint on her breath when she gasped into my mouth, the sweet taste of her shivers when I kissed the shell of her ear and the addictive taste of her moans that coated my tongue when I licked a path over her neck as I shoved three fingers into her tight pussy. And maybe the best of all, the heady taste of victory when she gave me her pleasure.