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He bit her jaw in retaliation. “Own this pussy,” he grit out, changing the angle, the speed. “Own you. Fucking all of you. So deep you won’t get me out.”
Fat chance of that.
She bit her lips as he lifted her higher, taking her hardened nipple into his mouth through her dress, the fabric rubbing wet against her sensitive flesh. Her nerves caught fire.
“Oh god,” she whimpered, her voice straining as he hit her g-spot again, and she exploded all around him, gasping for breath, her walls clenching and squeezing him, her body shaking as he kept thrusting in and out, over and over.
“Just like that,” he groaned, burying his face in her neck, his motion roughening. “Come on my cock, baby. Fucking soak me. Mark me.”
She kept coming as he hit her spot, over and over again, before he exploded inside her, soaking her walls with his seed, pushing in as deep as he could go.
They stayed there for a few seconds, catching their breaths, the intensity of the experience still making her shiver as he stayed lodged inside her, his face in her neck, pressing soft, sweet kisses to her skin. This, this was exactly why she had been waiting for him, for so many years. Months of separations dissolved in the moments of connection, so true, so raw, so pure, she knew she would never have it again. There was no other Dante for her, and she knew there was no other Amara for him.
He lifted his head, cupping her face, his eyes moving over her. “I’m sorry too. I have to go.”
The abruptness of it made her heart sink. She hated it when he left, and truthfully, she hated him a little for leaving every time, even as she understood it. Usually, he stayed a little longer though. She didn’t understand what was causing this rapid shift.
And she saw something in his eyes, something she had never seen before. Fear.
That brought her up short. “Dante-”
“Ask me to kiss you, Amara,” he commanded, something he hadn’t said to her in ages, his eyes so heavy, so dark, his pupils and irises merging to make a black hole, absorbing everything that she was into them.
Warning bells began to ring in her ears.
“Kiss me,” she told him and he held her face, pulling her up to her toes, pressing his mouth to hers in the softest, most soulful kisses he’d ever given her. He stayed that way for a long minute, before pulling out of her, pulling away from her, and adjusting his attire.
Amara watched with silent eyes as he left, as quickly as he’d come. Like a tornado without a warning, he’d blown in, shaken her foundations, wrecked everything inside her, and left her standing in her living room with a probably-traumatized cat, hickeys on her neck, and a leaking pussy.
She got the news two weeks later.
She saw the news two weeks later.
Dante Maroni was dead.
She had disappeared.
He was doing this for her, for them, and she had fucking vanished. God, he couldn’t wait to get back so he could look for her himself.
Dante tugged at the cap on his head, missing the feeling of the watch on his hand and the suit on his body. The t-shirt, while soft, wasn’t really him in public. But that was the point.
Dante Maroni was dead, and he was a ghost. For years, he had been building towards this point, working from the inside to this end. Daddy dearest’s closet was finally open, and the monsters inside sunk their claws into him.
He didn’t want to fake his death, but it had all come to a head with a phone call from the man across from him – the same weirdo who’d been watching Tristan and him beat up a creep years ago. With a heavy beard and hazel eyes that were a hundred percent Morana, the man had given him evidence of his father’s true evil.
For years, Dante had known there had been something more to the business, but he’d never been able to nail it. Not until his search for Amara’s abductors had led him to a name.
The Syndicate.
He had remembered the name. And when Morana came up with the same name again searching for any trace of the missing children twenty years ago, it put him on high alert.
But the Syndicate was a ghost – no one knew anything about it, hadn’t heard about it, didn’t even know it existed. So to catch a ghost, he crossed over to the other side and became one himself.
The man passed him the envelope. He didn’t know the man’s name, never had, but soon after getting his brother out and Amara’s exile, Dante had contacted him. They’d been working together ever since, taking over his father’s empire piece by piece, from the fringes, readying the entire system for his takeover on his terms – although Dante was amazed he hadn’t realized this guy had set Tristan up by stealing the codes until later. But the man had asked Dante not to let them know, and while Dante wouldn’t have agreed usually, he was Morana’s father. So, Dante respected that.
“This is the address?” Dante asked, sinking deeper into the shadows of the hole-in-the-wall bar in Tenebrae, where the worst of humanity hung around, drinking cheap booze and finding cheaper pussy. Nobody in the world would recognize him here, not with his scruff and cap and loose clothes.
“Yes,” the man replied, rubbing his knee that Dante knew had been injured courtesy of his father. The Reaper was a strong man to survive what he did and to live as he did, just to protect his child who didn’t even know of his existence. And Dante had grown fond of Morana, so he knew this would hit her hard. But still, he respected strength, and the strongest person he knew was in the winds.
