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“Mine, little thief. Mine,” he insists, kissing the corner of my mouth with terrifying gentleness.
And I don’t say no.
Afterward, he doesn’t speak.
But he doesn’t leave either.
And if I wasn’t so unhinged with pleasure,thatwould’ve terrified me.
CHAPTER 11
Dante
She’s asleep.
Sprawled across the rumpled black sheets of the playroom bed, her limbs lax, lips parted. Her hair’s a dark halo against the pillow, and her skin glows in the low light—marked by my hands, my mouth. The collar gleams at her throat like a brand.
She’s still flushed from what we did.
From what Iletmyself do.
I should leave. I always leave.
But I don’t.
So many firsts with her. Like fucking without a condom. I was stunned when she ticked the box about no protection. Stunned and relieved, because I sense I would’ve slipped up and fucked her raw anyway. The joy of reverse hacking my little thief is that I know everything about Dahlia. More than is wise, probably.
I know the last time she was fucked—two years ago. Know the exact location of the shithead too. He’s not a threat so I’m leaving him alone. For now.
I stand there like a fucking idiot, pants still half-undone, sweat cooling on my back, staring at the girl I swore I’d break—and wondering if maybe she’s the one breaking me.
I turn, move to the console. Pretend I’m checking something. Anything. But my eyes keep drifting back to her. Her body. Her goddamnface. I still feel the exquisite clutch of her pussy around my cock. Each stroke a lock finding a key. Each second inside her a homecoming.
Fuck.
I crave a repeat more than my every lifelong wish. Combined.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Not tonight. Not ever.
She moaned my name like it meant something. Her cunt clenched around my cock like it didn’t want to let go. She came so hard I thought I’d have to hold her down to stop her from floating away.
And I felt it. That thing I swore I’d buried years ago.
Need.
Not just the kind that rips through you and demands you drain your balls. I’ve mastered that kind of want. I’ve controlled it, weaponized it. Used it to rule boardrooms and boiler rooms to blackmail assholes.
But this…
This is something else.
Something slower. More dangerous. A slow-moving avalanche.
Beautiful, mesmerizing but deadly.
I move to the liquor cabinet across the room and pour myself two fingers of Oban. The single malt burns down my throat, sharp and clean. I watch her the whole time, her back rising andfalling in a soft rhythm. Her hand twitches in her sleep like she’s reaching for something. Someone.
For me?