Page 46 of Wicked

As Maria places traditional Italian breakfasts between Dante and me, surely she must be picking up on the loaded energy.

This is getting way out of hand.

Last night at the wedding, we were light and bouncy. After when hecommanded me to come, I had. That was as hot as all fuck, but now…

Now, we’re like a couple of strangers.

Like a couple of screwed up people who can’t even communicate. Maria breaks it up fast, thank God. “So did you sleep-a well, young Raven?” I clear my throat, about to reply. “You have a glow about-a you, dear. Whatever you did last night must have been good for you.”

She clearly meant the wedding, and I try not to look at Dante. Dante, however, groans ever so slightly, and he sounds like a wounded wolf.

“Si,” I say. “It was a lovely evening, grazie.” I then raise an eyebrow at Dante. “Thank you again, Dante. For letting me… come.”

Dante watches me devoid of emotion. Actually, that’s not accurate. He looks cold and ruthless or full of hate.

“And you, Dante?” Maria asks, standing back and adjusting her apron.

Dante turns on that charming version of himself. The version apparently reserved for older women, relatives, and weddings. “Grazie, Maria. Si. I am well.”

I know otherwise, and unless he fisted his cock hard last night, he is likely charged.

He is also a tease and a brute. Not at all the polite reserved gentleman he portrays himself to be here and now.

The arrogant grump played me last night before walking away without a word or touch of humanity.

As Maria tells us about her day, she dusts her hands on her apron. With a final smile, she adds, “Well, I must-a be off. Enjoy your day.”

After we stand and thank her, she heads out and I exhale nervously. I calm some, and I fight not to look Dante’s way.

He shakes his head, leans back chewing, and our eyes meet. He appears slightly playful, and I warm, slowly grinning like a naughty teen.

I want more.

No, I need more.

Dante gives no more emotions away, and as usual, he is reserved and controlled. Make that controlling. As he reaches for the fresh bread, he licks his fingers.

“Pass me the jam.”

I give him a look with my smoldering eyes, and I pass him the sweet jam and then the marmalade.

After trying some of each, he shakes his head. “It’s not what I want.”

As our eyes meet, he leans back again. He then crosses the strong arms in his tight black T. His eyes are cold, and his energy is becoming charged.

“I need something sweeter and wetter,” he says huskily. “Find it for me.”

I double blink in disbelief. What the heck does he mean?

“Put your hand in your panties and give me your wet fingers.”

He has to be kidding, surely. Part of me wants to leap up and slap him. It’s completely wrong, but it’s beyond… hot. As I get turned on, I feel myself getting wet.

“Hand in panties, now!”

Slowly, I gulp, and I slide my hand inside my pants. My eyes are full of hate, and as our eyes hold each other’s, I get the ends of my fingers wet.

I can’t help myself, and I circle my throbbing clit. As I slide lower in the seat, I find more room. I spread my legs, let my lower lip drop open, and I whimper. As I insert two fingers, I moan, my mouth open wide.

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