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“Ask me to kiss you,” he ordered, eyes dark on hers.
Amara felt her breath catch in the confined space of the vehicle. “Kiss me.”
“My dirty fucking girl,” he murmured, his hand moved from her ass, going under her dress, moving to cup her between her legs through her panties, as the other hand plucked her hard nipple. Heat shot through her breast, arrowing down right where his fingers were feeling her, wetness pooling on his hand.
“You’re soaked,” he growled, pushing her panties aside and plunging two fingers inside her.
Amara moaned, her head falling back as she gripped his head, hips moving over his fingers.
“Ride my hand, baby,” he encouraged her, his voice low, husky, perfect.
Amara moved her hips in wanton motions, feeling his thumb settle on her clit, alternating between pressin
g it and rubbing it, and the coiled serpent of shameless pleasure tightened inside her, beckoning her to taste the ecstasy waiting for her.
“Soak my hand, dirty girl. That’s it. This pussy is mine, Amara,” Dante took her other nipple into his mouth over her dress, sucking it deep, making her arch back as a current zapped through her body. “These tits are mine.” He moved up to kiss her neck. “This scar is mine.”
Her legs spread as she settled even more, rotating her hips, and his mouth took possession of hers. He kissed her hard, devouring her mouth, sending electricity zapping through her nerves, her heart racing, her inner walls pulsing around his fingers. His tongue swiped over her lips, tangling with her tongue, before sucking it into his mouth. The wetness of the kiss, the dirtiness of the joining, the sloppiness of the sounds, just turned her on even more.
She pulled back to catch a breath, panting as she exploded out of nowhere, her orgasm crashing into her, making her keen and thrash and shake as her inner muscles clenched around him, shivers running up and down her spine, her eyes rolling back in her head.
Heart thundering, she opened her eyes as Dante pulled his fingers back, and brought them to his mouth, keeping their eyes locked, licking one digit, his tongue tasting her come, and heat coiled in her belly again, faster than it should have. He pulled her head down to his mouth, making her taste herself, their lips crashing and colliding together, before he pulled back, picked her up, and placed her back in her seat.
Amara gave a pointed look at his erection tenting his pant, and he grinned. “Not gonna fuck you here, baby. Not where anyone could sneak up on us and I’d be balls deep in you to notice.”
Amara leaned towards him as he started the car again, sliding her hand down his chest, taking the flesh of his earlobe in between her teeth and tugging.
“Amara,” he warned as her hand slid over his length, unzipping his pant. “Baby-”
“Keep driving, Mr. Maroni,” she whispered, before bending down over the console and taking him in her mouth, giving her man pleasure as he somehow drove them home.
One of the things Amara was extremely grateful for was not having morning sickness through her pregnancy. After the initial few days of extreme exhaustion and sickness, she had bounced back and the babies had given her no trouble.
Her heart clenched, remembering there was only one baby now. She didn’t know if that thought would always leave her feeling a little hollow but happy, but it was still fresh. Rubbing her still flat stomach, Amara looked in the mirror at her gown, feeling like she was going to burst out of it up top. The pink fabric which once hugged her breasts was now stretched to the last stitch, pushing her cleavage up high. A few more millimeters and she probably wouldn’t even fit in the thing anymore.
Amara sighed, turning this way and that, trying to locate any changes on her body as Lulu napped at the foot of the bed behind her, the bed she and Dante now shared in the mansion. Her first night in that bed had been blissful sleep out of exhaustion. Last night, she’d been restless even though Dante had passed out cold. He was still asleep, as early morning light filtered through the room.
Dante was a heavy sleeper – always had been. Amara used to joke that an earthquake wouldn’t wake him up. Once his head hit the pillow, he went out immediately like a light, no snores, no sounds, no movements. He rarely changed positions through the night, so still that Amara would’ve thought him a statue had he not been so warm.
She, on the other hand, was a mover. She turned and twisted a hundred times through the night, had vivid dreams or nightmares that usually woke her up, and had a hard time falling asleep. She also had a thing for pillows and blankets, the more the merrier, something Dante didn’t understand. He didn’t care so much – as long as he had a place to sleep, he’d close his eyes and crash.
Amara left him sleeping with Lulu at the foot of the bed, knowing he was tired, and put on the silk robe that went with her gown. Nighttime lingerie was a guilty pleasure of hers. They made her feel feminine and beautiful. As soon as she’d started earning, she had splurged on gowns and baby dolls to sleep in, and on the nights Dante had come to visit her, she’d broken out the special ones she reserved for the occasion, only to have him whip it off her. But it was that momentary pleasure, that flare of desire in his eyes that made it worth it.
Stepping out of the room, Amara closed the door and took in the corridor. Being on the east side of the mansion on the second floor, the master suite was slightly secluded from the rest of the house. The carpeted corridor was decorated with paintings on both sides – paintings Dante had brought down from the storage and had framed; paintings his mother had made.
They were oil paintings of vistas and abstract art – a familiar sunset over the Tenebrae hills, a river curving through the city, a leaf fallen on the grass, and disturbing shapes. His mother had been skilled, the shading and finish of her work incredible. She could see where Dante got his artistic bone.
Amara was about to continue when one painting caught her eye.
She stepped closer to it. It was plain except two shadows – one crouching to the floor, connected to the other looming over her. It was disturbing in its plainness, but that wasn’t why Amara had stopped in her tracks. Back at university, one of her optional subjects had been the psychology of art and visual medium. She had spent a year studying it, enjoying it, analyzing different works by creators from over the world. It was that understanding of the psyche of the creator that had her pausing, considering all the paintings in the corridor in a new light.
Heart pounding, she ran back to the bedroom, going to Dante’s side.
“Dante,” she shook him awake, her urgency to know the answers fueling her blood. “Wake up.”
His eyes opened, bleary, then took in her face. He shot up on the bed, alert, his hand going to the gun at the bedside table by instinct. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”
Amara shook her head, taking a deep breath. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. Relax.”
