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This was done. Completely. She wanted to leave. She wanted him gone. She didn't want a single reminder of her own flesh's depravity. This was messed up, more messed up than she'd thought it would be.
Regret and anger burned through her, along with hatred for herself.
And she saw it all mirrored in his gaze in one split second of clarity before he masked it again.
He was hating himself too. He was regretting too. He was angry too.
Good.
The worst part was, even as everything burned in her body, so did desire, as unsated as it had been when she'd walked into the room. What had been the point of it all if she felt no satisfaction whatsoever?
Without a word, she turned towards the door and took her first step.
And almost buckled down, the heaviness between her thighs almost knocking her to her knees. She was sore. Goodness, she was sore. One step and she remembered the fullness of him, the feeling of having him inside her, the sheer bliss. One step.
How the fuck was she supposed to walk out into the restaurant?
The same way she walked into her house every day.
Steeling her spine at the sobering thought, she passed him, the memory of pleasure resonating with every single step, the wetness perpetual around her sore walls, somehow hungry for even more.
His hand caught her arm just as she passed him, and she turned her head sideways, looking up at him, raising her eyebrows silently.
"Break his arm next time," he said quietly, his blue eyes magnificent, the sheer power in them making her heart pound.
His words sank in.
She snatched her arm back, a sneer curling her lips. "Touch me again, and I will break yours."
"Once was more than enough, Ms. Vitalio."
Her hackles rose. "I'll tell that to the notch on my bedpost, Mr. Caine."
Without waiting for his response, she strode towards the door, not giving a fuck about how he would escape the ladies’ room. He had come in; he could go out.
Unlocking the door, she pulled it open, to find two men waiting for her towards the end of the corridor.
Not glancing back where she could feel his eyes on her back, she walked towards the men, her head high. Her stride was steady even as the soreness between her legs throbbed with each step, reminding her again and again of exactly what she had done and let be done to her, reminding her of the man who'd done it, reminding her of the pleasure she hadn't wanted to feel but had, and to what degree. Every single step. Her throbbing core spasmed on air, getting hungrier. She'd just had the most mind-blowing orgasm, and she felt anything but sated. What was wrong with her?
The men started walking behind her, their guns hidden under their jackets, stance alert.
Morana entered the main eating area, her eyes falling to the Outfit table at the other corner, her eyes meeting Dante's. He knew. His gaze told her he knew exactly what she'd been doing, and where his blood brother was. But she saw no judgment, no trepidation, and no pity in his eyes. Just tiredness.
She looked away before she could linger, heading towards her father's table, her face clear of all her emotions and turmoil.
Without looking at anyone, she took her seat rigidly, her lips pursed, her thighs clenching tightly to keep the throb to a minimum. She was aware of her father watching her, and she looked up, challenging his eyes. The creep beside her glared at her.
Her phone vibrated.
She broke the gaze and looked down at it.
Tristan Caine: How many notches does that bedpost have?
Her jaw almost dropped at the audacity of him. How dare he?
She quickly typed a reply, memories – of friction, of heat, of pleasure – flooding her with more and more rage.
Me: All you need to know about my bedpost is simple.
