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I might be frustrated and confused.
But I don’t ever want that.
“I hope the fuck not.” He ignores my words, and panic slowly starts to creep into me.
“I want you to have what you want. You want to control those who hurt you, hurt your sister, your mother. I get it, baby. I want that for you. I want to give you the world. But I can’t do it if you won’t help me.” His hands move to my hips until he’s lifting me, turning, and placing my ass on his desk.
The fire in me begins to simmer.
I hate the effect he has on me.
I also kind of love it.
“Let me help you,” I say, my hands running up his chest, looping around his neck. “I spent my whole life being pretty and quiet and protected. I want to be loud and ugly. I’m not delicate.”
“I know that. You’re also mine.”
“What about Angela? Did you tell her she’s yours? Did you kiss her? Did you sleep with her?” I ask, taunting, the acid burning in my stomach all the same. His hand goes to my hair, tugging, holding me in place in front of him.
“Drop this shit right fucking now, Delilah. Fuck Angela. I don’t give two shits about her. It’s you who keeps me happy. And it’s my job to keep you happy,” he says, then his nose runs down my throat and back up, his tongue tasting the skin behind my ear. "Let me make you happy, baby," he says, his words a coo, and despite all common sense, despite any and all frustrations boiling under my skin, my legs widen just a hair.
"That's my good girl," he says, and my eyes start to drift just with those words alone and what they do to my body.
Goddammit.
His hand goes to my knee, gently moving up, up until he hits the center of my jeans, his thumb pressing there. I bite my lip, determined not to moan.
He knows.
He knows what he's doing to me.
He knows he's about to win.
I can't find it in me to care, though.
"Dante," I whisper.
"I know, baby," he says, stepping back and moving to his knees before deft fingers work at the strap around my ankle.
His eyes stay on me all the while, watching me watch him, watching my tits move in the tiny corset as my breathing picks up.
From the man removing my shoes.
Jesus Christ.
I had no chance, did I?
He stands when the shoes are in a tidy pile, moving back between my legs and working on the button and zip of my jeans. "Up," he says, and I obey, lifting onto my hands so he can tug down my jeans, kneeling once again when he brings them down with my panties, pulling them over my ankles, and tossing them on top of my shoes.
And then he stays down there, hands running up my legs as I sit on his desk, moving up, up, up until a thumb runs over my clit and down to my entrance.
"Already fucking wet for me, yeah?" he asks, and I don't answer.
His eyes are no longer on mine.
Instead, he's fixated on my pussy, where his thumbs open me for him to look at. I move, leaning on my hands as I watch him before me, then he runs a single thick finger up and down.
"Dante," I whisper.
