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I grasp the foot of the bed with one hand, leaning forward as I pump my cock into my hand, careful not to touch the head. I imagine that it’s my cock filling her, making those lewd sounds, her wet, heated flesh wrapped around me. I can imagine how beautiful she would look underneath me, her breasts wobbling with every thrust, her tanned skin flushed with pleasure, those dark eyes wide and liquid with desire.
God, I need to fucking come.
I’ve never tried so hard to hold back. Every muscle in my body is rigid, tense with the desperate need both for relief, and to wait until she reaches her release as well.
“God, yes, just like that—” Emma lets out another pleasured whimper. I can imagine her legs spread wide, taking every inch of the fake cock as she fucks herself, imagining that it’s mine. She must have seen my arousal earlier, must be picturing what I would look like, and I want to show her. I shudder, knuckles white with how hard I’m gripping the foot of the bed, halting my thrusts again as I squeeze my cock. My balls are tight and aching, and I fumble for my discarded shirt, tossing it onto the bed so I have somewhere to come. I’m so fucking close, and it’s all I can do not to beg her to come for me, to let her know that I’m listening.
There’s no mistaking it for anything else when she comes. She cries out, the sound of her pleasure high and musical. “Yes, fill me up,fuck, Dante—”
The sound of her moaning my name as she orgasms sends me over the edge instantly. My cock swells and throbs in my hand, my fist jerking along the length of my cock erratically as I give myself up to it, thrusting hard as my cum spurts out over the shirt I tossed onto the bed. I think of the thin strip of her flat stomach that I saw beneath the edge of her tank top, imagine that I’m coming there instead, marking her with my cum. I grit my teeth so hard I hear my jaw pop, forcing myself to come in absolute silence as it shoots from my swollen cockhead. I picture it on Emma’s belly, her breasts, dripping over her skin as she whimpers the last of her pleasure on the other side of the phone.
I rub my palm over my tip, squeezing out the last drops of cum just as I hear the wet sound of her toy sliding out of her, and my cock throbs again. I feel almost dizzy with how hard I came, and I lean forward against the bed, my hand still wrapped around my softening length.
I almost reach for the phone. I almost try to talk to her. But before I can, my head still swimming with pleasure, I hear the sound of the call clicking off.
She must have realized what she did. And unless I’m very, very wrong about the sort of woman that Emma is, she’s never going to be able to face me again now that she knows.
I let go of my cock, breathing hard. The thought of that feels unacceptable. Even now, post-orgasm, in the moment where I usually want to get as far away from whatever woman is in my bed as possible—I can’t stop thinking about her.
I need to see her again.
And I think I know exactly how to make that happen.
5
EMMA
Ihave two days off after the appointment with Dante, and I’m glad. For one thing, I know Brendan is going to have questions—how could he not?—and I don’t feel capable of answering them without turning tomato-red after what happened that night. Not without a bit of space from the incident, anyway, and those two days give me exactly that space.
In the morning, I delete Dante’s number from my phone. Quick and easy, no fuss, and I feel remarkably better afterward. I can put the entire encounter with him, and its aftermath, out of my head.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
In practice, it’s harder, which is infuriating. I find my thoughts drifting back to him more than I’d like. I’d prefer not to think about him at all, but I keep remembering the flex of his muscles, the mischievous look in his green eyes, that stubble on his jaw that made me want to reach out and touch his face. And it’s not just the physical attraction, either.
He’d seemed genuinely interested in me—in my art, my work. Things that I love talking about and sharing with others. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected from someone like him—someone in charge of a mafia family, the kind of tough, hard-edged man that I wouldn’t have thought had an appreciation for art. I always thought that the reason rich and powerful men like him took an interest in art was for the tax write-offs and ability to launder money through art galleries, and nothing more.
I’d been hesitant to open up to him, but I can’t help wondering where the conversation might have gone if I had. If I’d been more relaxed.
With a mafia boss? Don’t be ridiculous.I look around my small condo as I clean, trying to picture Dante here. It’s laughable. The idea of a man with so much wealth, who lives in a penthouse in West LA, who runs a criminal organization, being in my small and humble little home is ridiculous. I can imagine the way he’d look at it—at the countertops that are made out of Formica instead of granite, the kitchen tiles that are chipped in spots, the carpet that needs replacing. The cramped space that I love, that’s cozy to me, but would probably stink of poverty to him in comparison to where he lives. What is, to me, a comfortable and nice place to live—would be to any average resident of the city—would seem like squalor to him.
We come from two very different worlds. They’re not compatible.
Unless they could be, just for a night or two.
The thought lingers into the following evening, when I get ready to go to work. I throw on frayed black denim shorts and another tank top, the loose blue-and-black plaid shirt thrown over it against the evening chill, and put my hair up in the usual ponytail. I find myself wondering how Dante’s tattoo is healing, if he’s still happy with it, and I congratulate myself for having the foresight to delete his number. If I hadn’t, I’d be far too tempted to use that excuse to call him, even after the embarrassment of the other night.
Which, of course, is exactly what he was banking on when he put his number in my phone in the first place.
I’m not averse to hookups. I roll the idea over in my head as I go out to my Chevelle, twirling my keys in my fingers. Dante’s number is likely in the shop records—Icouldstill call him if I wanted to. But what good would come of it? A night or two with him would be fun, but it could invite complications that I don’t need in my life.
What if I wanted to end it before he did? What if I did something to upset him? What if he found out about my problems, and used them as a way to make me do things I don’t want to?His pleasant manner and teasing attitude at the appointment make it easy to forget who and what he is. Still, I remind myself as I start the drive to the Night Orchid that it would be a mistake to do that. Dante is a dangerous man, and as attractive as that might be from a certain point of view, I don’t need danger or intrigue.
What I need is some fucking peace. And he won’t give me that.
Brendan is already at the shop when I get there, picking out the music for the night—some high-energy popular radio station that isn’t my favorite, but will do. I like retro wave or rock when I’m tattooing, but we switch off on the nights that it’s just us here, when Rico isn’t in the shop to override us with his choices.
“Emma!” Brendan waves to me as I walk in, the small bell on the door chiming behind me. The shop smells pleasantly of vinyl, green soap, and cleaning products, a smell that’s become almost nostalgic for me. “Rico is still out sick, so we have the place all to ourselves. Thai food?”
