Page 27 of The Hitch
I shake my head, but it's half-hearted. He laughs again, still thrusting into me, but adjusts his position. With a deft movement, he shifts me further up the bed. Dante grips one tattooed hand on top of the headboard while sliding the other down to my waist. He towers above me, and I just stare.
The angles of his facereallyaren't bad. Hell, he's an incredibly attractive guy. The dark tendrils swirling up his neckdocontinue down his chest but fade into a collage of faces. So many faces. All of them obscured in some way, but I swear, all of their eyes stare directly at me. Some sick part of me, deep down, revels in the faux-exhibitionism. My rational side tells me to twist my legs around and kick him off, run away, scream bloodymurder—but she's not in charge right now. No, the hedonist in me is in control. And she wants to getrailed.
"Keep your eyes on me, love," Dante commands. I snap my gaze back to his face and suck in a breath. The intensity of his gaze makes my rational side wither away into dust. I want this man to fuck me. Hard.
"You say I'm yours?" I pant out. "Show me. Fucking show me."
His hand snakes from my waist to my clit, and he applies theperfectamount of pressure. He never touches the most sensitive part, but circles around it. It's exactly how I like it, and I can't hold back the moans building in my chest. They only spur him on. He rocks his hips and toys with my clit until I'm practically screaming his goddamn name.
"Just like that, love." His praising words make a delicious shiver run down my spine. "You're getting close, darling. Don't hold back. Come on my cock."
Words are beyond me, but I think he's getting closer, too. His thrusts come faster and harder, and every muscle in my body tenses. I can feel the orgasm building to an explosive height. Heat and pressure andeverythingcollide, and I let out a scream as the waves of pleasure crash through my system. My hands—seeming to have a mind of their own—slap to his hips, and I clench down with everything I have.
Dante's eyes disappear behind his lids, and he traps his lower lip between his teeth, letting out the most incredible masculine grunt. His hips slow, and I feel the warmth of his cum flooding me, spilling out, pooling underneath me. He collapses down and traps me underneath him. We silently huff out breaths together. Little aftershocks course through my body until it's all too much—I push him off. He, thankfully, doesn't resist.
He rolls to his side and gives me a lazy smile. "I told you. You're mine."
My rage builds again as I sweep up the mess on his perfect fucking hardwood floors. The mind-blowing orgasm didnottake away my other emotions, thank you very much. If this is what he means by being a good girl—cleaning his goddamn house and taking his dick—I can really only promise half of that.
But a hundred million dollars is a metric shit ton of money. Per his stupid contract, I wouldn't even have to raise the kid. I'd hand it over and be on my merry way. Part of me jumps for joy at the freedom he's offering. God, I couldreallyset myself up nicely in Mexico with even a fraction of that money.
I huff out a breath of frustration. Am I really so desperate that I'm entertaining this? Being a brood mare for a psychotic rich boy? The clinks of broken ceramic in the dustbin answer me: yes, I am.
I don't have to make it easy for him, though.
The instant the floor is spotless, Dante pokes his head back in the door. "Perfect timing. They're here."
"What?"
Before the word is even out of my mouth, a gaggle of well-dressed women and one man pour in. Everyone talks at once, grabbing me and throwing measuring tape around—I shudder and avert my eyes, as I don't want to know the circumference of my waistline—while the man runs his hands through my hair.
"Dante," I yell over the din of voices. "What thefuckis this?"
He smirks. "You need to be presentable for the Consortium." And then the fucker disappears.
"You strike me as a winter," a blonde woman says as she holds fabric swatches up to my face.
"Definitely a winter. We'll do white gold, then. Black or green?" A stunningly beautiful redhead addresses me, but I have no fucking idea what they're talking about.
"What? Black or green what?" I stammer.
"Your signature color. You'll need to match Mr. Lyons, of course."
What the fuck did he drop me into? There was no mention of being paraded about, there was no mention of this… whatever this is. Marry him, pop out a spawn, and move on with my hundred million. "Black, I guess?"
"Perfect choice, darling!" the man playing with my hair chimes in. "Black goes witheverything."
"And she'll look positively divine with the shades of violet to match."
Well, thank fuck I didn't choose green. Then I'd look like that cartoon clown villain. I can't quite catch the rest of their overlapping conversation, but I think I'm going to be dressed to the nines for… something. Remembering the horrifically ugly wedding dress Dante stuffed me in, I grimace. These people better not be associated with that.
"Something wrong, honey?" The blonde woman lays a gentle hand on my shoulder.
"Oh, uh. No. I mean…" I chew on my bottom lip. "Was the, um, wedding dress… was that your work?"
A chorus of laughter erupts around me, and I flush red all the way to the tips of my ears. God, I hate this—I'm not cut out for this. And to top it all off, that itching under my skin has started to surface again. The faint grinding that I swear I can hear buzzes at the base of my skull. I clench my hands around the hem of the T-shirt, and it takes all of my strength to keep from ripping it.
"So sorry, honey. No, that wasnotus. Your husband didn't give us any notice, and he grabbed something off the rackin Center City." She pouts and twirls one of my messy curls. "Unfortunate. I could have whipped something upwith proper notice!"
