Chapter 31: Bloody Heart: Chapter 31

While Dante searches the master bedroom, I keep watch outside, making sure that guard doesn’t circle back around.

Keeping guard is pretty boring. At first, I’m distracted by the fear of getting caught and the guilty sensation of sneaking around someplace you’re not supposed to be. Once that fades, I’m just standing in the dark, listing to the distant thud of house music. I saw the DJ out in the backyard—I’m pretty sure he’s the same one who played at Ryan Phillippe’s birthday party in Los Angeles.

Sometimes I go to celebrity parties, when Ivory drags me along. She loves that kind of thing. That’s why she got into modeling in the first place—she loves the attention, the feeling of being special.

For me, the attention only makes me feel more lonely. People think they love Simone Solomon, but they don’t actually know me. All their compliments mean nothing, because they’re directed at the persona I created. That Simone is just a product. She doesn’t really exist.

I know what it felt like to be loved by someone who actually understood me. Dante loved me not like my parents do—because of what they want me to be. He loved me exactly the way I was.

Serwa did, too. But she’s gone now.

And Dante, though he’s only a few meters away on the other side of that door . . . he might as well be a thousand miles away. I lost his love forever when I ran away from him.

At least I have Henry.

I’m afraid, though. Afraid that by making Henry the center of my world, I put too much pressure on him, just like my parents did to me. It’s not right to put all my happiness on him. He shouldn’t have to carry that burden.

I don’t know what else to do, though.

Other than Henry, nothing in my life really makes me happy.

God, if only I hadn’t ruined things with Dante . . .

I thought I caught him looking at me when we walked down the hallway. I thought his eyes had that same look in them that they used to—hungry and intent.

But then I blinked, and he was just staring down the hall again, refusing to meet my eyes.

As I wait, I hear voices down at the end of the hall. I’m about to duck inside the master to warn Dante, but I can hear that the two people are moving in the opposite direction, across to the far wing of the house.

My hallway and theirs form a T-shape. As the figures cross the intersection of the two points, I see Roland Kenwood. I looked up his picture online before we came. He’s medium height, lean, with a long, tanned face, an aristocratic nose, and a shock of gray hair. In the photos for his publishing house, he’s dressed in dark suits with monochromatic dress shirts beneath. Right now, he’s wearing a lime-green shirt unbuttoned to the navel, pool shorts, and sandals. He’s accompanied by a young woman. A very young woman—maybe even a girl. She barely comes up to his shoulder, and she’s wearing a Shirley Temple dress, with her hair in two blonde plaits over her shoulders, the ends tied with bows.

I can’t see the girl’s face because she’s looking up at Kenwood as they pass. But I hear her childish giggle.

My skin crawls. They’re walking quickly—if I don’t move fast, they’ll disappear into this rabbit warren of a house.

I poke my head into the master, looking for Dante. The suite is too big and too dark for me to see much of anything.

“Dante?” I hiss.

There’s no answer.

I don’t have time to find him. I run down the hall as quietly as I can, looking to see where Kenwood went.

As I turn left at the T, I can just see the hem of the girl’s skirt disappearing into the last doorway on the right. I hurry after her, worried what Kenwood plans to do once he gets her alone.

By the time I get to the end of the hall, the door is closed. I press my ear against the wood, unable to hear anything on the other side. I know I’m not going to be able to go inside without being spotted, but I don’t have any choice. That girl could be Henry’s age.

So I grab the knob and turn it, stepping into the brightly lit room.

It’s completely empty.

I see a couple of couches, a big-screen TV, and a full bar, stocked with liquor and snacks. But nothing else. No people.

I don’t understand. This is the only door in and out of the room. I saw Kenwood go in with the little girl. And nobody came out.

Then, very quietly, so quiet I almost miss it, I hear a giggle.

It’s coming from the far wall.

I cross the carpet, to what looks like a ten-foot-tall silkscreen of Andy Warhol’s “Mao.” I listen closely. Silence. And then . . . that giggle again. Coming from behind the painting.

I grab the frame. The painting swings away from the wall on a hinge. Behind is another room.

I step over the ledge into the space behind. The painting swings back in place, closing me in.

This room is much larger. The padded walls are upholstered in red velvet, as is the ceiling. The carpet is so thick my feet sink into it. I can’t help but think that all of this is designed to block any sound escaping.

The room is so dim that the furniture seems to loom up out of nowhere, like rock formations obscured by fog. It doesn’t help that the furniture is all extraordinarily odd—even by Kenwood’s standards. In fact, I can’t tell what half of it is. I see a leather-covered bench with two wings on either side. Then something that looks like a table, with a soft padded top, and metal rings fixed all around the edges. A giant birdcage, at least six feet tall, with a perch that looks like a playground swing. Then some kind of rig that looks like exercise equipment, with several different straps and loops and . . .

I blush as I realize I’m looking at fetish equipment. All the furniture serves a sexual purpose—some obvious, now that I realize the theme, and others still a mystery to me.

I hear a low murmur from the far side of the room. This time the voice is male—Kenwood.

I hurry over, not even trying to be quiet. Now that I know I’m in a sex dungeon, I’m definitely going to grab that girl and get out of here.

Kenwood is sitting on a couch set against the opposite wall. His arms are stretched out along the cushions, and his head is thrown back, eyes closed.

The girl kneels between his spread legs, her head bobbing up and down.

Kenwood groans. He grabs the back of her head and pushes her face down on his cock.

“Stop!” I scream, rushing forward.

Kenwood sits up, startled and annoyed.

The girl turns around, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

Even in the dim light, her face startles me. I see big, innocent eyes, thickly framed with false lashes. Bright spots of blush on her cheeks. But wrinkles line the corners of her eyes and the edges of her mouth, made more obvious by her thick makeup. She’s not a child at all—just dressed like one. She’s older than me, by quite a few years.

She stands up. She must be less than five feet tall. Her expression is curious and malicious. With the bleached pigtails and the frilly dress, she looks like a demonic doll.

Kenwood is looking at me, too. Now that his surprise has passed, a little smirk turns up the corners of his mouth. Without breaking eye contact, he tucks his wet penis back into his shorts.

“Simone Solomon,” he says. “How nice of you to join us. I assume you’re not familiar with my assistant, Millie.”

“Nice to meet you,” Millie giggles.

Her voice is high-pitched and deliberately childish. It makes my stomach roll, as does the way she stands—hands clasped behind her back and head tilted to the side.

“Now, what can I do for you?” Kenwood says. “I assume you have a reason for crashing my party and snooping through my house?”

My eyes dart between Kenwood and his assistant. They’re both smirking at me, well aware of what I thought I was witnessing when I interrupted them.

“I—I . . .”

“Spit it out,” Kenwood says. Then, with a sly glance at Millie, he says, “Or swallow. I like it better that way.”

“Did you hire someone to kill my father?” I demand.

Kenwood snorts. “You think I hired that sniper?”

I did. Up until I saw the arrogant look on his face. Now I’m less sure.

“Yes . . .” I say hesitantly.

“Why is that?”

“Because the Freedom Foundation gathered all that information on your private parties. The FBI opened an investigation. You almost got arrested . . .”

Kenwood’s face darkens. He doesn’t like me mentioning any of that. It’s obviously a hated memory for him.

“I arrested though, was I?” he hisses.

“No,” I say, refusing to drop his gaze. “But you might be soon.”

“Is that what he told you?” Kenwood jeers. “Your father?”

I’m confused. I don’t understand what he’s getting at.

“Yes,” I say. “He thinks you’re the most likely person to want him dead.”

“Why would I?” Kenwood spits. “I’ve kept up my end of the deal.”

“What deal?”

Kenwood laughs, pushing up from the deep sofa. I take a step back, now that he’s standing.

But Kenwood isn’t walking toward me. He goes over to the bar, next to a massive painting of Alexander the Great on horseback, and starts mixing himself a drink.

“Do you want anything?” he asks me.

“No.”

He pours bourbon over ice and swirls it around before taking a drink. Millie skips over to him. He dips his index finger in the liquor, then holds it out to her. She sucks the alcohol off his finger, looking up at him the whole time, then she licks her lips.

Kenwood fixes me with his cool stare again.

“Your father and I made a deal. I gave him the names of three of my suppliers, and a couple of ‘friends’ that I didn’t mind throwing under the bus. In return, the video his little foundation made at one of parties—which would have been thrown the fuck out in court anyway, by the way—went missing. Saved me a scandal, at the low price of a couple disposable degenerates. In fact,” Kenwood laughs, “getting Phil Bernucci arrested was doing me a favor. That fucker tried to poach the movie rights to , which I owned for the next eight years, and he knew it. Watching him lose his beach house in Malibu to lawyer fees was fucking beautiful.”

I shake my head in disbelief.

“I don’t believe you.”

My father would never destroy evidence of a crime like that. He built the Freedom Foundation to stop trafficking. To stop people like Kenwood.

“I don’t care what you believe, you silly bitch,” Kenwood snaps, throwing the rest of his drink down his throat.

At that moment, a man pushes open the painting of Alexander the Great and steps into the room. It’s one of Kenwood’s guards.

Kenwood sets down his glass, next to a red button set in the smooth wooden surface of the bar. A call button. Kenwood pressed it while he was making his drink.

“Grab her,” Kenwood says carelessly.

I try to turn and run, but the burly security guard is much faster than me, especially when I’m hobbled by a tight dress and high heels. He seizes my arms, pinning them behind my back. I scream when he grabs me, and the guard clamps his huge hand down over my mouth. I keep screaming, squirming and biting at his hand, but he’s much stronger than me.

“Hold still or I’ll break your fuckin’ arm,” he growls, twisting my arm up behind my back. Pain shoots up from my elbow to my shoulder. I stop squirming.

“That’s better,” Kenwood says. Jerking his head at Millie, he says, “Tell the guards to search the rest of the house. Find whoever she came with.”

Millie pouts. “I want to stay and watch.”

“Get going,” Kenwood says coldly.

Turning back around, he looks me up and down.

“Strip her,” he says to the guard.

I don’t know if he simply intends to search me, or something worse. The guard grabs the front of my dress and yanks it down, ripping the shoulder strap. As soon as his hand isn’t covering my mouth anymore, I scream as loud as I can, “DANTE!”

I hear a roar like a bear. Dante comes bursting through the Andy Warhol print on the far wall. He tears the canvas like it’s not even there, barreling through into the room beyond.

Kenwood shrieks with rage, his fingernails digging into his cheeks.

“

he cries.

Dante takes one look at me, arms still pinned behind my back, dress torn so that one strap is dangling down, and my left breast is bare. His face darkens with pure, murderous rage.

He charges at the guard. The guy lets go of me, trying to get his fists up, but he might as well be trying to box a grizzly. Dante’s massive fist comes crashing down on his jaw, and then his other fist goes swinging up like a hammer. He hits the guard again and again, driving him back. Each of his blows lands with a horrible thud. When he hits the guard in the mouth, blood spatters sideways, landing wetly on my arm and Kenwood’s shoe.

Dante hits the guard twice more, then picks him up and throws him. The guard is a big man, but Dante flings him across the room like a discus. He crashes against the wall, then goes slumping down on the sofa, groaning and only half-conscious.

Kenwood looks terrified. He’s madly punching the call button set into the bar, but it’s too late. In three steps, Dante’s picked him up by the throat, lifting his feet off the floor. Dante’s thick fingers sink into Kenwood’s throat. Kenwood’s face turns red and then almost purple, his eyes bulging and spit flying from his lips as he tries to form words. He claws at Dante’s hand and arm, but they might as well be made of stone for all Dante seems to feel it. Kenwood’s feet kick helplessly in the air.

I think Dante’s just releasing his aggression, but as Kenwood’s eyes start to roll back, I realize Dante might actually kill him.

“Dante, stop!” I cry. “He didn’t do anything to me!”

It’s like he can’t even hear me. Kenwood is going limp now, as Dante’s fingers sink deeper and deeper into his throat. I think he’s going to break the man’s neck.

“Dante!” I shriek. “STOP!”

My voice cuts through his rage. He turns to look at me, and maybe the terror on my face snaps him the rest of the way out of it. He lets go of Kenwood, who goes crashing down to the floor, unable to catch himself. He’s still alive, though—I can hear his rasping breaths.

“He hit his panic button,” I tell Dante. “We’ve got to get out of here before the rest of his goons show up. Or the cops.”

Dante still looks dazed, like his anger put him in an entirely different state. One that he can’t come back from so easily.

But he does hear me. He grabs my hand and says, “Come on.”

The feeling of his warm fingers enclosing mine sends a jolt of electricity up my arm. I let Dante pull me along, back through the painting he destroyed, back through the empty room, and then down the hallway.

I hear feet thudding up the staircase—two or three men at least. Dante yanks me into the nearest doorway, pressing me against the wall with his bulk to keep me safe and out of sight. We’re closer now than we were when we danced. My face is pressed against his huge chest, and his arms pin me against the wall. His body is hotter than a furnace, still inflamed by his anger at Kenwood. I can feel his heart thundering away by my cheek. His chest rises rapidly with each breath.

As we wait for the footsteps to go by, I look up at Dante’s face.

For once, he’s looking back down at me. His eyes are black and gleaming like wet stone. His expression is ferocious.

I open my mouth to say something. Instead his lips come slamming down on mine. He crushes me in his arms, attacking me with his mouth. He kisses me like he’s been waiting nine years to do it.

His stubble is rough. It scrapes my face. But his mouth . . . oh my god, he tastes so good. I’ve been starving for that taste. His scent makes me dizzy and weak.

I cling to him. I melt into him. I whimper from how badly I want him.

And then he stops.

“We better get out of here,” he growls.

I completely forgot we were in the middle of escaping.

Dante pulls me out in the hallway. He pauses to listen, then, hearing nothing but the pounding music from below, we sprint down the dark hall, all the way to the stairs, then down to the main level. Dante shoves through the press of guests—the party is more packed than ever now. He steals the Ferrari’s keys from the valet stand, and soon we’re roaring back toward the gates.

One of the guards steps forward, hand outstretched like he’s going to stop us. But Dante doesn’t take his foot off the gas even a little. The gates are already open. The guard has to leap out of the way as we roar past him, missing him by an inch. We speed down the dark road, away from the gaudy mansion.

I let my breath out in a long sigh.

“My god,” I say. “That was insane.”

My heart is still racing. I’ve never actually witnessed a fist-fight before. I’m not used to violence. I don’t even watch it in movies. That’s why it was so disturbing to me when I saw Dante covered in blood that night.

Now I’ve actually seen him in action—seen him throw another man across the room as if he weighed nothing. I watched him choke Kenwood until the life faded from his eyes.

It was horrifying. And yet . . . I know Dante did it for me. I saw the look on his face when he crashed into the room, and saw me with my dress ripped, arms pinned behind my back. He went into a rage . To protect me.

I want to look over at him. I want to say something. But I’m so afraid to break the silence between us. To shatter this brief, moment in time, where I know for certain that Dante still cares about me at least a little. I’m afraid if I say anything, the understanding between us will splinter like glass and fall apart, leaving me cut and bleeding all over again.

But I have to speak. I have to say something.

“Dante . . .”

His dark eyes meet mine. They look a thousand miles deep. I can see past the anger, down to the pain he’s been hiding. I hurt this man. I hurt him badly.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Why was it so hard to get those words out?

Why didn’t I say them to Dante a long, long time ago . . .

The effect is instantaneous. Dante’s huge hands tighten around the wheel, and he swerves hard to the right. The car screeches and almost spins, sliding onto the gravel shoulder before coming to a stop.

Dante turns and faces me.

He’s frightening me, but I have to keep going.

“I’m sorry I left,” I babble. ”It was a mistake. A mistake I’ve paid for every day since.”

“

paid for it?” he says, in a tone of disbelief.

“Yes,” I’m trying not to cry, but I can’t help the hot tears pricking at my eyes. “I’ve been so unhappy . . . I never stopped missing you. Not for a day. Not for an hour.”

He’s silent, his jaw clenching and working while he seems to struggle either to say something in response, or to hold back.

I can see the battle on his face. Two forces warring inside of him—the desire to rage and yell, against maybe, I hope, the desire to tell me that he missed me too.

“You’re sorry?” he asks me, those black eyes searching my face.

“Yes.”

“I want you to show me how sorry you are.”

I don’t understand what that means.

He pulls the car back out onto the road. I don’t know where we’re going, and I’m too afraid to ask. I’m nervous and confused. But there’s also a grain of hope inside of me . . . because he didn’t reject me outright. I think there’s the tiniest chance he might forgive me still.

We drive back into the city without speaking. Then Dante stops abruptly outside The Peninsula hotel. This isn’t where I’m staying, so I’m confused.

“Go wait in the lobby,” Dante orders.

I do what he says.

As always happens when I’m self-conscious, I feel like everyone is looking at me. I have to hold the left strap of my dress together, because it’s still torn. After a few minutes, Dante joins me with a room key in his hand.

“Upstairs,” he says.

A shiver runs down my spine. I think I’m starting to understand, though I don’t dare say a word. I follow Dante obediently into the elevator, hands trembling and knees shaking with nerves.

The elevator rises up to the top floor. Dante leads me down the hallway to the Honeymoon Suite.

He unlocks the door and pushes it open.

I hesitate on the threshold. I know if I step over, something is about to happen.

I don’t care what it is. In that moment, I finally understand that I’ll do anything to have Dante again. Even just for a night.

I step into the hotel room. Dante closes the door behind me. I can feel his heat and bulk, right behind my back. I feel him looming over me. I’ve never known a man who could make me feel so small and helpless just by standing next to me.

When he speaks, his voice is the deepest and harshest I’ve ever heard it.

“Do you know what that nine years did to me?” he says. “Do you know what I did to try to forget you? I abandoned my family. I joined the military. I flew halfway across the world and fought in a hellscape. I killed a hundred and sixty-two men, just to numb the pain of missing you. And none of it worked, not for a second. I never stopped hurting. I never stopped wondering how you could leave me, when I couldn’t let go of you even for a second.”

“I’m sor—” I try to say again.

Dante grabs my throat from behind, cutting off the words and pinning my back against his broad chest.

“I don’t want to hear you say you’re sorry,” he hisses. “You need to show me here and now how sorry you are, if you want me to believe you.”

He’s not squeezing hard, but even the tiniest bit of pressure restricts the blood flow to my brain. My head is spinning.

“Nod if you understand,” he says.

I nod my head as much as I can, with the collar of his hand around my throat.

“Say, ‘Yes, Sir,’ ” he growls.

He relaxes his grip enough for me to respond.

“Yes, Sir,” I whisper.

“Turn around.”

I turn around to face him. I’m shaking so hard I can’t even look up at his face.

“Look at me,” he orders.

Slowly I raise my eyes to his. His eyes look like pure, dark ink. His face is brutal, handsome, and terrifying.

“Take off your dress,” he says.

Without hesitation, I slip down the straps—the one that’s already broken, and the one that’s whole. The thin silver material slides down my body, puddling on the floor at my feet.

Dante’s eyes burn over my naked flesh.

“Underwear, too,” he orders.

I remember how he made me strip like this in the woods a long time ago. I don’t think tonight is going to be like that night.

I slip down my lace thong and step out of it, still wearing my heels.

Dante lets his eyes roam over my fully naked body. I can see him taking in every inch of it, maybe comparing it with the memory he’s had in his mind all these years.

Then he strides past me, into the room. He sits down on the edge of the bed. I’m about to follow after him, but he barks, “Stay there.”

I stand there naked, as he slowly unlaces his dress shoes and takes them off. Then he strips off his socks.

With his big, thick fingers, he unbuttons his dress shirt, baring the muscle of his chest. I can see he added several more tattoos since the last time I saw him shirtless.

He pulls the dress shirt off, revealing his monstrous shoulders and arms, and his torso.

Oh my fucking god . . . his body is insane. He looks like he spent every minute since I last saw him torturing himself in the gym. I think he took every bit of his aggression out on his weight set.

I feel myself getting wet.

“Now . . .” Dante says. “Get down on your hands and knees, and crawl over here.”

I don’t hesitate.

I drop to my knees and crawl across the carpet. My face burns with humiliation, but at the same time, I don’t give a fuck. I’ll do whatever he asks.

When I reach his feet, I look up at him.

Dante is unzipping his dress pants, pulling out his cock. It’s just as big as I remembered. It looks dark and swollen in this light. I can feel my mouth watering.

“Suck it,” he orders.

I take his cock in my mouth. The second I do, I taste the thin, salty fluid leaking from the tip, familiar and delicious to me. Saliva floods my mouth. I start sucking his cock ravenously.

I’m sucking his cock wildly, eagerly. I’m showing him how much I missed this cock, missed this body, and most of all missed . I’m proving that I ached for him, longed for him, just as much as he did for me. Maybe even more.

I worship that cock. I use my hands, my lips, my tongue, my throat. It’s wet and messy and without any dignity at all. And I don’t give a fuck. All I care about is that it feels good for him. He can be my master and I’ll be his slave, if that’s what it takes to get him back again.

I can tell it’s working. Though he’s trying not to, Dante groans and thrusts his hand in my hair, pushing my head down harder on his cock. He rolls his hips, fucking the back of my throat, and I take his cock deeper than I ever have before.

But before I can finish him off, he stops me.

He stands up and pulls his leather belt free from his trouser loops. He loops one end around his hand and pulls it tight, making the leather snap like a whip.

I gulp.

“Put your hands on the bed and bend over,” he orders.

I put my palms flat on the mattress. Because I’m tall and still wearing heels, I have to bend all the way over.

I hear Dante moving behind me. I close my eyes, knowing what’s coming next.

The leather belt whistles through the air and comes down hard on my ass.

CRACK!

I jump and let out a yelp.

“Hold still,” Dante barks.

I try to hold still. I try not to flinch away from the next blow.

CRACK!

The belt hits my other ass cheek. I can’t help crying out again.

I know Dante isn’t hitting me nearly as hard as he could, but it fucking stings. I’m sure he’s raising welts on my bare ass.

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

He keeps spanking me with the belt. I yelp every time, unable to bite it back.

Dante pauses for a moment. He reaches between my legs and feels my pussy with his fingers. I’m soaking wet—it started as soon as I took off my clothes, and it’s only gotten worse. Nothing he does makes it stop. I just keep getting wetter.

His fingers on my clit give me sweet relief, soothing the burning pain of my ass. But it only lasts a moment. I hear the whistle of leather, and the belt comes crashing down on my buttocks again.

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

“Are you sorry now?” Dante growls.

“Yes!” I sob.

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

“How about now?”

“Yes! I’m sorry!”

Dante grabs me by the hair and pulls me upright. He shoves me back down on my knees and wraps the belt around my neck. He uses the belt to pull my mouth back down on his cock, which is raging hard, jutting out from his body like solid steel.

He shoves his cock all the way to the back of my throat and holds me in place with the belt while he fucks my face. It’s rough and aggressive and I can’t breathe. But I don’t give a shit. The more Dante uses his superior size and strength on me, the more I love it. I love that he’s using me like this. I love that I can’t do anything about it.

He takes himself all the way to the edge again, but he doesn’t blow. Instead, he pulls me up on the bed and makes me suck his cock some more. I’m lying on my side while he thrusts in and out of my mouth from a kneeling position. I’ve never given oral for so long before. My jaw is aching. But at the same time, the feeling of the thick head of his cock banging against the back of my throat is oddly satisfying.

While he fucks my face, Dante reaches down and fingers me again. He rubs my clit and pushes his fingers inside of me. I grind against his hand, my pussy swollen and aching for more.

His fingers wet with my juices, Dante starts to press against my ass as well.

I stiffen up. I’ve never done anal before. Never even considered it.

“Keep sucking,” Dante orders.

I suck his cock, gripping the base with my hand, and working the head with my mouth.

Meanwhile, Dante slides his fingers in my pussy and ass.

At first, it’s uncomfortable and way too intense. But he goes slow, rubbing my clit at the same time, until I relax enough for him to finger me the way he wants.

“Are you going to do whatever I say?” he growls.

“Yes,” I moan around his cock.

“Are you going to let me fuck you any way I want?”

“Yes . . .”

I can’t refuse.

I can’t say no.

I need him.

Dante mounts me from behind. He puts the head of his cock up against the entrance of my pussy and he slams into me with one thrust. I cry out, louder than ever. He’s fucking huge. And I’ve been waiting so long for this . . .

He grips my hips between his massive hands, and he thrusts into me again and again, so hard that his hips slam against my ass. He’s fucking me like an animal, like a bull in heat, hard and rough and deep. I can’t get enough of it. I’ve been wanting him so badly for so long that nothing less than the most wild and aggressive sex could satisfy me.

He takes me in every position. He lifts me up and fucks me up against the wall. He bends me over the bed and fucks me while standing behind me. He makes me ride him in reverse, so he can watch my ass and back flexing. And then he makes me ride him the other way, with my tits bouncing in his face.

It goes on for hours.

I cum again and again. I cum from his fingers and tongue, and most of all from riding him.

The orgasms are intense and wrenching. They crash over me like waves, smashing me beneath their weight. And while I’m still recovering, still limp from pleasure, Dante flips me over and fucks me in a new position.

We’re both drenched in sweat. Our bodies slide against each other, slick and flushed. We don’t stop to drink water, or to rest. We’ll keep going until it kills us.

Finally, I’m done. I can’t take anymore.

Dante climbs on top of me. He fucks me hard, droplets of his sweat pattering down on my bare chest. I can tell he’s ready to let go, and finally cum himself. He fucks me harder and harder, building to his climax. Then he grabs the base of his cock and pulls out of me.

He throws his head back, tendons standing out on his neck and shoulders. His muscles are pumped and swollen from hours of exertion. Veins run down both arms, and down the back of the hand gripping his cock. He roars as the orgasm rips through him. Huge spurts of cum pour out of his cock, splashing down on my bare skin, heavy and hot. He paints my flesh with his cum, long ropes of it across my breasts and belly. It looks white and pearly against my skin.

Then he sits back on the bed, panting and flushed.

Our eyes meet.

I touch the cum on my belly. I bring my fingers to my lips and taste it, to see if it’s just like I remember.

Dante watches me, eyes glittering. He lunges forward and kisses me. He presses me back down on the mattress with his bulk, kissing me long and deep with his hands thrust in my hair. He doesn’t care how sweaty and messy we are. Neither do I.

Our bodies are wrung out and exhausted, but we’re not done with each other. I don’t know if we’ll ever be satisfied. We were too long apart.

Dante pulls back just enough to look in my eyes.

“I never stopped loving you,” he tells me. “I never could.”

I’m about to reply to him, saying the exact same thing.

But then I remember something. One awful fact that Dante doesn’t yet know.

He doesn’t know we have a son. He doesn’t know I kept Henry a secret from him.

He says he could never stop loving me . . . but he doesn’t know the reasons he might do exactly that.

I should tell him. I should tell him right now, I know that . . .

But I’ve waited so long to be in his arms again. Surely I can enjoy it for one night, before risking it all being ripped away from me again . . .

So I don’t tell Dante that one last secret. I just pull him close and I kiss him again and again . . .