He panted on top of me, fists on each side of my face keeping him aloft.
Watching his pained face, I reached down and felt him through his jeans.
I’d never seen it before, but the shape of him even through his clothes fascinated me. He was so hard and there was so much of him straining to get out. I rubbed at him earnestly, learning his shape, squeezing and pulling at him through the stiff material.
Abruptly, cursing, he sprang off me and was gone, down the hall and in the bathroom with the door closed.
I stood up and followed him, not bothering to put my shirt or bra back on.
I listened at the door for one beat, two, and realizing he wasn’t going to the bathroom, I slowly opened the door.
He was at the sink, one hand braced on the wall.
He had his jeans unzipped and pulled down far enough to bare his thick, naked sex, and he had it in his hand and was frantically stroking it, yanking it hard enough that it looked like he was hurting himself.
His eyes snapped open, and he stared at me like a deer caught in headlights. Then his eyes shifted down to my breasts, and he started jerking faster.
I bit my lip, stepped inside, and shut the door behind me.
He pinned me against it and started kissing me, grabbing my hand and pushing his cock into my palm.
There was lotion by the sink, and he pulled back briefly to squirt some into my hand before he brought it back to his straining sex and started jerking himself off with both of our hands.
I tried to keep up, but I was clumsy with inexperience.
Still, it didn’t take much before he was finishing, just a few hard, long, fast motions before warm wetness was shooting out of his tip and against my naked naval.
I loved it, loved the look of madness in his eyes. Reluctantly I let go of his twitching member to put my arms around his neck and rub against him.
With a groan, he rubbed back, his hardness still spurting liquid onto my belly as he palmed my breasts and took my mouth.
Eventually he pulled back to look at me. “Did I freak you out too much?” he asked, studying my face intently.
I pulled back slightly and looked pointedly down. My hand went to touch him. He wasn’t as hard now, but he wasn’t soft either and I started playing with him.
He moaned and cursed, then started praising, growing harder by the second in my curious hand.
“No,” I finally answered. “Actually I think I’m becoming obsessed.” I squeezed his tip experimentally. “With this.”
“Let’s go to your room,” he murmured thickly, hands still at my breasts, kneading. I swear he’d have played with them every hour of the day if it were possible. He was at least as obsessed with those as I was with his newly discovered sex.
I was intimidated but I didn’t protest. I needed something more. More touching. More of his naked skin on my naked skin. Something. Anything. I couldn’t have walked away then if I tried.
When we got into my room, he moved to the foot of my bed. His jeans were still undone, but he’d tucked himself away, and as I watched, he zipped and buttoned them closed. After seeing him bare, I wondered how he even fit into his pants.
“Take off your shorts,” he told me softly, eyes on my large, trembling breasts. “And come here.”
I tried to do both at the same time, fumbling at the button of my cutoffs and moving to stand between his sprawling legs.
With a moan he started sucking at one of my nipples, his hands going to help me.
“I’m not ready to go all the way,” I told him breathlessly. I didn’t want him to think I was a tease.
Well, at least not a tease that wasn’t being honest with him.
“I know, angel,” he said with his lips still on me. “I just want to touch you, okay? I want to take care of you like you took care of me.”
I moaned and wiggled out of my shorts, but I left my panties on because I couldn’t imagine getting naked in front of him just like that.
He left them on, his fingers playing with my sex first over the material, and then he was pulling it aside and pushing into me.
I gasped. It was such a shocking sensation that I couldn’t imagine ever getting used to it.
He didn’t seem to notice my reluctance, his whole being concentrated on feeling me with his fingers.
“Jesus, you’re so wet,” he groaned into my chest.
My knees were going weak as what he was doing to me started an ache inside of me that I didn’t know how to relieve.
“I want to lie down,” I told him.
He moaned and I crawled onto the bed. When I was on my back, he started pulling down my panties.
I stopped him, I don’t even know why, instinctually, I suppose, but he just paused, bent, and started sucking on my nipple, then began to pull them down again.
When he had me completely naked, he sat up at my hip and started playing with me again, his eyes intent on what he was doing.
I squirmed. I needed something, I wasn’t sure what, but he wasn’t doing it. He was jerking his finger in and out of me, his breath ragged, his eyes looking like he was about to lose it again.
“It’s too much,” I told him. “The pressure’s too much.”
His hand froze. “What should I do?” he asked, looking as lost as I was.
“It just . . . hurts. Your finger’s too big.”
He looked horrified. “My finger’s too big?”
I thought about this. “That’s never going to fit inside of me.”
Something happened to his face, it fell and lifted as a shudder wracked through him. “Jesus.” He pulled his finger out of me with a curse. “Fuck. I need to go to the bathroom again.”
I sat up and stayed him with my hand. “Don’t. Stay here. I want to see.”
“I don’t want to freak you out.”
“Do you do that every time after we . . . make out and stuff?”
His mouth twisted into a sheepish smile, and he couldn’t look me in the eye. “Every time. At least once. Hell, at least twice.”
My eyes widened. “How long’s that been going on?”
“You don’t even want to know.”
I kind of did, but I dropped it as his hands went to the button of his pants.
“What should I do?” I asked him as he rose and shed his jeans.
He tilted his head down to give me an amused look. “Honestly? You could do anything and it’d work for me. Just sit there and watch me if you want.”
I shook my head. He wasn’t getting it. “I want to do it. I want to get you off myself.”
His eyes closed and his head fell back. “Jesus. You’re going to kill me today, aren’t you?”
I grinned. It was like nothing else, the power I felt at how desperately he wanted me.
I lay back down on my back and feeling daring I spread my legs apart. “Come lay on top of me,” I told him breathlessly. “We can feel each other while I . . .“
“Jack me off,” he said gruffly, climbing between my legs. “Say it.”
“Jack you off.” He went a little wild kissing me for that.
He had to get up briefly to grab lotion, and we got a little carried away.
It started with my hand, but as our bodies rubbed together his tip was brushing against my sex, then pushing at it. I moved him with my hand so he could rub along me without going in.
I would have let him go all the way, in fact a part of me desperately wanted it. Just wanted to say screw it and have each other completely.
But I didn’t. My grandmother had ingrained in me too deeply the fact that as soon as you gave yourself to a man he wouldn’t want you anymore.
And more than any other thing I needed in my life to survive, I needed Dante to want me. To crave me. To love and adore me.
I was obsessed with keeping him obsessed.
As we rubbed against each other, I found just the spot where the ache came from, and I took the softest part of his blunt tip and started rubbing it there in clumsy movements,
then in little circles as I got the lay of it.
Dante didn’t last five seconds like that, his tip mashed up against my mound.
He came again with a rough curse and I loved it. Loved making him lose his control and his mind.
He was panting over me, his eyes on where we were touching. He braced himself with one fist on the mattress, the other going down to my hand on him. He was still coming as he fisted his cock and shifted it to my entrance. With a groan, he butted up against it.
I held my breath. If he’s going to do it, I decided, I’m not going to stop him.
He groaned and pushed in just the barest amount, the very tip of him invading me.
But he stopped himself, and with a curse, rolled off me.
I stayed where I was, flat on my back. The ache inside of me had become so powerful that I couldn’t stop shifting my hips.
“Try your fingers on me again,” I told him.
He sat up and started petting me with his hand, different now, focusing on the area around my entrance instead of just invading.
I showed him the spot I’d discovered. “There,” I told him, pressing his finger to it.
He bit his lip and applied himself to the task with utmost concentration. “Softer,” I panted at him. He changed his touch, lightened it.
“Mmm, that,” I sighed, closing my eyes.
Before long, I had both heels on the bed as I moved against his hand.
He pushed the finger of his other hand inside of me, and this time it was better. This time I wanted it to move.
“Can I go deeper?” he asked hoarsely.
“No,” I gasped. “Just keep doing that. Move it. Just like that.”
I felt I was getting close to something when he seemed to lose it again.
I glanced down at his lap. I hadn’t even realized he could, but he was coming again, jerking into the air.
I hadn’t even had to touch him. He was coming just from touching me. I reached a hand out, stroking him, feeling it with him, as though with touch I could own his orgasm for myself.
And as he came, and came, he got careless with his hands, jerking his finger harder and deeper inside of me. With a stifled cry, he shoved it in to his knuckle.
I jerked, my eyes shutting tight in pain. “Dante!” My voice was an embarrassing yelp.
“Jesus, I’m sorry,” he panted, and he sounded it. “I didn’t even know I could do that. My fingers are too big. Jesus. I’m sorry.”
I glanced down as he pulled his finger out of me. It was bloody.
I closed my legs and turned away. “I’m not supposed to start my period,” I told him, mortified. “I don’t know what happened.”
He started kissing my back and stroking me like a cat. “That wasn’t your period. Jesus. I’m sorry. I broke your barrier. Your hymen. I didn’t mean to, I swear. I thought it would only break when we had sex. Did I hurt you?”
“A little bit. Nothing major. It just surprised me.”
His breath was getting heavier near my ear. “Can I look? Are you too sore for me to keep trying? I want to look at you. I want to get you off.”
I let him cajole me onto my back again, let him push my legs apart and look at me, because it seemed to be driving him wild again, and I was absolutely addicted to driving him wild.
And just as strong of a motivation; I wanted him to get me off. I wanted to know what it felt like; the thing that put that madness in his eyes.
It took a long time, it was unfamiliar ground for both of us, but he was patient and curious, and he worked me with his hands until he wrung my very first orgasm out of me.
He kept his fingers in me as I clenched on them, a look of wonder on his face.
“Does the hymen thing mean I’m not a virgin anymore?” I asked him later.
“It means that you’re mine,” he said intensely, kissing me.
I had the most ridiculous, impossible thought then: I’ve just planted the seeds of my lifetime obsession.
I’d never need more than him. He fed all of my needs. He was just difficult enough to challenge me, but tender enough to make me feel safe.
Dante and I fit together perfectly. I’d been made for him and him alone. The idea of even looking at someone else in that way was intolerable to me.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
“I can resist anything except temptation.”
~Oscar Wilde
PRESENT
I lay very still in my old room, but I wasn’t sleeping.
I was battling with myself, beating back all the memories this house, this town, and particularly this room brought back.
I was especially vulnerable to distraction just then, because I needed it. Anything was better than the old memories, even if it meant making new ones to torture myself with.
And so when a quiet Dante came creeping into my room, I did the foolish thing.
I should have turned him away.
I did not do that. I did the other thing. The foolish one. I let him have me again.
And again.
In my defense, I was unutterably weak at that moment, too desperately in need of not just distraction but comfort.
And Dante came in the form of both.
So what if it came with a price?
A heavy price. Of torment. Regret. Bitter nostalgia.
I just chalked it up to my self-destructive streak taking its obligatory pound of flesh. My flesh was so weak; it always paid the price with little to no hesitation.
Just the opposite. My weak flesh paid it eagerly.
This wretched night was no different.
He was a large man, but he’d always had an uncanny ability to move with quiet grace, and so the sound of the door shutting and locking behind him was louder than the quiet shuffle of his feet.
My first reaction was fury. Of course it was. He was such a presumptuous bastard. The sheer, brazen nerve of him coming to me, here, like this?
But he knew me so well. This entire day had been an ordeal for me. Perhaps he sensed my weakness, the lengths I would go to just then for a powerful diversion. For a few guaranteed moments of blessed oblivion.
And also, though this reason was harder to admit, it was just as significant. If he was with me tonight, in this room, that meant he wasn’t in another room . . . with her.
He didn’t say a word as he quietly shed his clothes, but I could feel his eyes burning into me, could tell he knew I was awake though I kept my eyes closed and my mouth shut.
Neither of us needed words to sense the other’s avid attention.
When he was done, he put one knee on the bed, and then the other, crawling over me.
Still silent, brazen as hell, with no hesitation at all, he began to strip me.
Hating myself, hating him, needing him, despising that need, but still helpless against it, I didn’t stop him.
I was panting now in my fury, in my runaway, out of control lust.
He tugged my shirt impatiently over my head, tossing it aside, his hands going to my skin. I could feel his thick, bare member poking into my leg.
With a stifled groan, he ran his hungry fingers down my body, from my jaw, over each bone of my collar to the tops of my breasts, across each pebbled nipple, slowly, reverently along every bone of my ribs, down to my naval, until he reached my hipbones, where he unerringly found the top of my panties and slipped them off with one smooth pull.
We weren’t quiet by then, we were both making noises we couldn’t hide, gasping, panting loud enough to fill the quiet, but still we didn’t speak.
Without even one kiss, he turned me on my side, straddled one thigh and raised the other high over his shoulder, and pushed his pulsing, engorged length against my entrance.
Foreplay or no, it didn’t matter. I was wet and pliant, slick, steady beats of arousal pulsing between my thighs. I was already beyond ready for him, and he hadn’t even had to check. He’d just known, damn him.
He shoved his tip in, then more, and more, inching forwar
d steadily, not stopping until he was buried to the hilt.
The pressure then was almost too much. He bore into me so deeply and intensely that I felt split open, exposed and raw while he held himself there, at the deepest part of me, his heavy tip smashed up against my cervix unrelentingly.
Tears stung the back of my eyelids, and I couldn’t beat them back.
I couldn’t handle it.
His possession was so extravagant and so absolute. In that moment I couldn’t hide, even from him, how it devastated me.
And in the dark room, with only the barest sliver of moonlight illuminating it through the shades, he still saw my tears.
His blunt thumb traced over each one softly.
“Shh,” his voice soothed me. “Shh. I’ll make it better.”
He dug a fist into the mattress, his other hand cupping my face almost gently as he leaned forward heavily.
And he began to move.
And my body began to quake. A body quake that took me over completely, turned me upside down and inside out.
It was almost too quick for me like that, at that deepest angle with his unstoppable thrusts that put me into exquisite distress with every dip and plunge.
He crashed into me relentlessly.
Possessing my flesh every time he bore into me, and ruthlessly taking everything in his path as he withdrew.
My hand reached up to grab the wrist of the hand that held my face, my nails digging in as I got closer to my end.
My grip was as savage as his was gentle, scoring deep scratches into his flesh.
More marks I’d be leaving on him, more proof of my ownership that wouldn’t fade with morning.
I tripped over into my release with a helpless sob.
It was so good. Nothing could compare.
Sex with Dante was so acutely satisfying that it felt both essential and damaging.
I wanted to thank him and curse him out both.
I did neither. It was something. At least I didn’t say anything I’d regret later. Instead, I only did—many, many things I could regret later.