I let him cajole me onto my back again, let him push my legs apart and look at me, because it seemed to be driving him wild again, and I was absolutely addicted to driving him wild.

And just as strong of a motivation; I wanted him to get me off.  I wanted to know what it felt like; the thing that put that madness in his eyes.

It took a long time, it was unfamiliar ground for both of us, but he was patient and curious, and he worked me with his hands until he wrung my very first orgasm out of me.

He kept his fingers in me as I clenched on them, a look of wonder on his face.

“Does the hymen thing mean I’m not a virgin anymore?” I asked him later.

“It means that you’re mine,” he said intensely, kissing me.

I had the most ridiculous, impossible thought then:  I’ve just planted the seeds of my lifetime obsession.  

I’d never need more than him.  He fed all of my needs.  He was just difficult enough to challenge me, but tender enough to make me feel safe.

Dante and I fit together perfectly.  I’d been made for him and him alone.  The idea of even looking at someone else in that way was intolerable to me.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

“I can resist anything except temptation.”

~Oscar Wilde

PRESENT

I lay very still in my old room, but I wasn’t sleeping.

I was battling with myself, beating back all the memories this house, this town, and particularly this room brought back.

I was especially vulnerable to distraction just then, because I needed it.  Anything was better than the old memories, even if it meant making new ones to torture myself with.

And so when a quiet Dante came creeping into my room, I did the foolish thing.

I should have turned him away.

I did not do that.  I did the other thing.  The foolish one.  I let him have me again.

And again.

In my defense, I was unutterably weak at that moment, too desperately in need of not just distraction but comfort.

And Dante came in the form of both.

So what if it came with a price?

A heavy price.  Of torment.  Regret.  Bitter nostalgia.

I just chalked it up to my self-destructive streak taking its obligatory pound of flesh.  My flesh was so weak; it always paid the price with little to no hesitation.

Just the opposite.  My weak flesh paid it eagerly.

This wretched night was no different.

He was a large man, but he’d always had an uncanny ability to move with quiet grace, and so the sound of the door shutting and locking behind him was louder than the quiet shuffle of his feet.

My first reaction was fury.  Of course it was.  He was such a presumptuous bastard.  The sheer, brazen nerve of him coming to me, here, like this?

But he knew me so well.  This entire day had been an ordeal for me.  Perhaps he sensed my weakness, the lengths I would go to just then for a powerful diversion.  For a few guaranteed moments of blessed oblivion.

And also, though this reason was harder to admit, it was just as significant.  If he was with me tonight, in this room, that meant he wasn’t in another room . . . with her.

He didn’t say a word as he quietly shed his clothes, but I could feel his eyes burning into me, could tell he knew I was awake though I kept my eyes closed and my mouth shut.

Neither of us needed words to sense the other’s avid attention.

When he was done, he put one knee on the bed, and then the other, crawling over me.

Still silent, brazen as hell, with no hesitation at all, he began to strip me.

Hating myself, hating him, needing him, despising that need, but still helpless against it, I didn’t stop him.

I was panting now in my fury, in my runaway, out of control lust.

He tugged my shirt impatiently over my head, tossing it aside, his hands going to my skin.  I could feel his thick, bare member poking into my leg.

With a stifled groan, he ran his hungry fingers down my body, from my jaw, over each bone of my collar to the tops of my breasts, across each pebbled nipple, slowly, reverently along every bone of my ribs, down to my naval, until he reached my hipbones, where he unerringly found the top of my panties and slipped them off with one smooth pull.

We weren’t quiet by then, we were both making noises we couldn’t hide, gasping, panting loud enough to fill the quiet, but still we didn’t speak.

Without even one kiss, he turned me on my side, straddled one thigh and raised the other high over his shoulder, and pushed his pulsing, engorged length against my entrance.

Foreplay or no, it didn’t matter.  I was wet and pliant, slick, steady beats of arousal pulsing between my thighs.  I was already beyond ready for him, and he hadn’t even had to check.  He’d just known, damn him.

He shoved his tip in, then more, and more, inching forward steadily, not stopping until he was buried to the hilt.

The pressure then was almost too much.  He bore into me so deeply and intensely that I felt split open, exposed and raw while he held himself there, at the deepest part of me, his heavy tip smashed up against my cervix unrelentingly.

Tears stung the back of my eyelids, and I couldn’t beat them back.

I couldn’t handle it.

His possession was so extravagant and so absolute.  In that moment I couldn’t hide, even from him, how it devastated me.

And in the dark room, with only the barest sliver of moonlight illuminating it through the shades, he still saw my tears.

His blunt thumb traced over each one softly.

“Shh,” his voice soothed me.  “Shh.  I’ll make it better.”

He dug a fist into the mattress, his other hand cupping my face almost gently as he leaned forward heavily.

And he began to move.

And my body began to quake.  A body quake that took me over completely, turned me upside down and inside out.

It was almost too quick for me like that, at that deepest angle with his unstoppable thrusts that put me into exquisite distress with every dip and plunge.

He crashed into me relentlessly.

Possessing my flesh every time he bore into me, and ruthlessly taking everything in his path as he withdrew.

My hand reached up to grab the wrist of the hand that held my face, my nails digging in as I got closer to my end.

My grip was as savage as his was gentle, scoring deep scratches into his flesh.

More marks I’d be leaving on him, more proof of my ownership that wouldn’t fade with morning.

I tripped over into my release with a helpless sob.

It was so good.  Nothing could compare.

Sex with Dante was so acutely satisfying that it felt both essential and damaging.

I wanted to thank him and curse him out both.

I did neither.  It was something.  At least I didn’t say anything I’d regret later.  Instead, I only did—many, many things I could regret later.

He wasn’t far behind me, rooting deeply just five, six, seven more heady times, keeping me worked up and in distress with him, clenching around him, coming even while it felt I might peak again.

He held himself deep as he emptied inside of me, staying there while I milked out every last drop, holding my legs split open like that, stretching me so wide and for so long that I knew I’d be sore in several places come morning.

I could have slept after that.  Could have passed out cold and slept deeper than I had in months.

In fact, I tried to, but he wasn’t finished.  Not even close.

He’d only just begun to slake his great thirst on me, to assuage his terrible hunger.

He pulled out of me slowly, with great hesitation, dislodging himself with regret, lingering at it, moving not just out but around, shifting inside of me, making his presence and its exit known and felt.