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He rolled his hips, almost blacking her out with the sudden movement, touching her magic spot. “That’s
the name you’re going to be screaming for a long time, Ms. Vitalio. Remember it.”
“Stop talking and fuck me then, Mr. Caine,” she challenged.
He complied. He started to fuck her in the true sense of the word.
The mirror in the dresser started to shake so much it rattled. The sound of the wood plowing a hold in the wall matched the rhythm of him plowing into her. Their eyes remained connected even on that shaky glass as he thrust in and out of her, rolling his hips, alternating. Her walls squeezed him in sync, weeping and clinging to him, the friction inside her spreading fire all over her body. Sweat coated her skin, her shuddering gasps turning into loud moans turning into small screams she could not control anymore.
“Tristan,” she panted, urging him on, moving her hips to his, watching him. It was erotic, watching him like that, watching herself like that, both of them dressed but so, so naked.
"Louder," he ground out between clenched teeth.
It shook her. "Tristan," she moaned louder, feeling all the ridges on his cock, could feel those pulsing veins, all naked inside her for the first time. He started to rub her clit harder, his hips picking up speed, her knees knocking against the wood as she balanced herself on the toes of one feet and the knee of the other, his hand around her throat holding her up and level. It wasn’t too tight but firm enough to make her feel completely surrounded, completely owned in that moment. She owned him right back, keeping him trapped inside her with every push. Slowly, the fire in her body concentrated on her burning core, her entire body shaking as she started getting light-headed from the overload of sensation.
And then she felt his teeth on her neck. Hard.
She exploded, screaming as her knees buckled, her balance forgotten, her walls releasing like never before, her heartbeats through the roof, so loud she could feel them thundering everywhere in her body. She could feel her own wetness running down her thighs, her eyes seeking his magnificent blues as she watched her come, committing everything to memory.
He pulled out all of a sudden, pushing her down over the dresser, and she saw him stroking his erection in his fist, his face twisting into agonized pleasure as he exploded over her back, his come pooling on the dress. Morana watched, fascinated, still reeling from her own pleasure, listening to that growl leave his chest as he jerked off for a few seconds, milking out every drop, exhaling.
His eyes, which had closed, opened again and found hers. He tucked himself back in, zipping up. Morana straightened slowly, watching as his hands came to her breasts for the first time. Not to touch, no. He still didn't touch her breasts even as her nipples strained towards his palms, aching with a hunger only his fingers could satiate. He never did. He just took the neckline of her dress in both hands and ripped it apart in one go, the sound of the tearing fabric loud in the room. He stared at her for a long minute, his eyes never wavering down to her bra, now completely exposed in the dress that hung on her only by the sleeves.
Gently, silently, he took the sleeves down and pushed the dress to the floor.
“Get rid of the dress.”
With that growled command, he turned on his heel and walked out, locking the door behind him with a click.
Morana blinked, all of it too quick for her to process. What the hell had just happened?
Her gaze drifted down to the discarded green dress that Maroni had sent her. It was ripped, tattered and had his semen drying on it. A slow smile teased her lips the longer she stared at it. A laugh escaped her, the situation suddenly funny. Picking it up, she walked to the bin in the bathroom and threw it in. Humming quietly to herself, she turned to wash her hands and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes lingered on the red mark on the side of her neck where he’d hickey-ed her. She touched the mark gingerly, the smile on her face full-blown now.
Showering quickly, she changed into her cute pajamas and jumped in her new bed, the knife safely under her pillow, a pillow pressed into her chest. She cuddled into it, thinking about the entire roller- coaster of a day. Her first day in Tenebrae. Despite being in the enemy city in the enemy's house full of hostile strangers, a small bubble of happiness nestled its way inside her heart. Her life, in many ways, was better than what it had been weeks ago. She had found a true friend in Amara and a protector in Dante. And she had found, under all the madness and chaos, Tristan.
Tristan.
Just Tristan.
She exhaled, her heart squeezing at the giant steps they had taken forward.
She didn't know if he would acknowledge them tomorrow or revert to his usual self. She didn't know how Maroni would respond to her words tomorrow. She didn't know if someone would try to harm her tomorrow. What she did know was tomorrow, she would wake up and work on the mysteries that were plaguing her. Tomorrow, she would work out a plan to deal with the sharks better. Tomorrow, she would think of how to deal with Chiara. Tomorrow, she would call Amara and talk to her. Tomorrow.
She might not be safe but she mattered. She mattered to someone. And he had started to matter a great deal to her.
And tomorrow, as they said, would be a new day.
It wasn’t the most peaceful night she’d had but it wasn’t the worst either.
The worst had been a long time ago in her father’s mansion when one of his men had sneaked into her bedroom. She had been young, yes, but not defenseless. She had smashed his nose with her foot before smashing the lamp on his head. Scared by the fight in her and the noise she was making, he had escaped. To her relief, her father had found out and punished him. To her disappointment, it hadn’t been for trying to assault his daughter but for daring to defy his authority under his roof. That had been the first night Morana had put a weapon beside her pillow and every night since then, she had slept with a weapon within easy reach, knowing how unsafe she had been.
The most peaceful night, much to her surprise had been in the penthouse of the man who’d sworn to kill her. It had been the night after her father had shattered her hopes at the bottom of the staircase, the night she had unknowingly sought out comfort and safety in the territory of the one man who should have terrified her but didn’t. It had been the night Dante had weaved his way a little into her heart and Tristan had made her feel safety the likes of which she had never experienced in her life. She had slept that night - vulnerable, exposed, hurt and weaponless - with the utter knowledge that she wouldn’t come to any harm, not at the hands of anyone, not while Tristan was there.
Tristan.
Morana smiled a bit, the warm feeling in her chest still lingering from last night. He had asked her to call him so, and so she did. Not just verbally but in her own mind. For some bizarre reason, she’d never thought of him as just Tristan. Maybe it had been too personal; maybe it allowed for an intimacy she hadn’t been willing to admit to. But he had addressed it last night in clear terms, broken a barrier she had created intellectually between them. The barrier lay broken now, the stamp of his claiming bare on her skin for anyone to see, the sound of his whiskey-and-sin voice demanding his name in her voice.
Tristan.
