This isn’t a role anymore. The realization hits me like a physical force.
“Maybe I do.”
“Be a good girl and tell me how dirty you want me to make you.” My fingers curl against the wood, knuckles white. Breathing becomes a conscious effort.
“Touch me.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere, Dante. Anywhere you want.”
“Now,” he says, his practiced indifference cracking around the edges, his need bleeding through, “here’s your second lesson. When you’ve got someone exactly where you need them, you take what you want. You make demands.”
He’s so hard. So willing. I love the power coursing through my veins.
“Then get on your knees,” I command. “Show me what you’ve been thinking about doing to me.”
He kneels before me. “You’ve been so bad denying your body what it needs, fighter.” His breath is hot against my inner thigh as he works methodically. First one shoe, then the other. He spreads my legs wider, and I let him. The cold air hits my skin.
“Give it to me.”
“I want to hear you,” he challenges. “No holding back.”
And I couldn’t help it if I wanted to, because when his tongue presses against my clit through cotton, my spine curves involuntarily, and I let out a sound I don’t recognize. The pressure feels so good. I jut my hips against him, seeking more pressure, more friction, more him.
For once, I’m not calculating my next move or worrying about how I look. My body knows what it wants. It wants this.
“Don’t stop, Dante.” My head falls back.
His tongue traces careful patterns that make my thighs shake. He pinches my nipples, and my limbs tighten under him. I tug at his hair, using it to anchor myself as pleasure builds and builds.
With two large fingers, he pulls my panties to the side, and his tongue finally makes contact with me. No barriers.
“You taste better than you did in my dreams,” he says, lapping again. “This pretty cunt of yours is going to be stained with my touch.”
With him below me, something primal fills my chest. He feels it too. Darkness envelops the gold of his irises. The sight should terrify me—we’re surrounded by weapons, cloaked in shadows—but it only feeds the fire burning through my veins.
“I want more,” I say, needing him inside of me.
His fingers press bruises into my thighs. “Fuck, Reese.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, my face burning. “Give me more, Dante.”
I rake my nails across his scalp, drawing out a sound that vibrates through me. His mouth is relentless, precise. Each movement of his tongue sends electricity through my nerves until I’m trembling.
I don’t break eye contact as he slips a finger into me, curving it and pulsing it slowly at first.
Oh my.
He adds another finger, and the fullness is exquisite. My hips move of their own accord, chasing the pressure. His tongue finds my clit again and works in slow, deliberate circles that make my toes curl. I let out a throaty cry.
He understands my body. He’s methodical in this like he is with everything, each stroke calculated, each curl of his fingers intentional. The thought flits through my head—all those hours watching him train, and this is how he applies that focus.
My thighs won’t stop shaking. The table creaks beneath me. When he lifts my legs over his shoulders, the angle shifts and—oh.
“You’re so perfect like this.” His breath is hot against my inner thigh. “My dirty girl, coming apart for me.”
The pressure builds until it shatters. I contract around him. When the pulsing stops, he pulls his fingers out. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly puts his fingers in his mouth, tasting me.
