Page 32 of The Hitch
Slap!
"Oh, my god," I gasp out. Fuck, I love the way that feels. Every time he slaps my ass, he rubs the pain away and slides a little bit deeper into me.
Fuck it. I'm a size queen. And it seems like Dante has the endowment to back up that big dick energy.
"You're goddamn right," he grunts. "I am your god. I'm your fucking god."
His thrusts become wilder, more frantic, and—even though I didn't know it was possible—deeper still. I feel his cock thicken as his groans turn to feral grunts.
"Fucking breed me!" I yelp out. He snarls and latches onto my hips as he fucks me into the bed. I don't even know what wordscome out of my mouth as his cock gets harder and harder until I feel the heat of his seed spill into me.
"Fuuuuck." Dante moans as he slows his primal thrusting and pants out each of his breaths. He pulls out of me, and I feel the hot slick between my thighs, but I don't get a chance to relax. I hear him drop to his knees, and I feel his tongue on my weeping cunt.
"Oh mygod, yes!" I cry out. Holy shit, holy shit. No man has ever eaten my pussy after coming in me before. But his own cum doesn't slow him down. He buries his face in me, lapping at my clit, sliding his fingers into my sore pussy. With a gentle curl of those fingers, I'm dancing on the edge, pushing my ass back into his face.
He moans into my pussy, and the vibrations feel like they zip up my spine and tickle my brain. I can hardly breathe—I can't even think—all I can do is feel. I feel him spread my ass cheeks wide, exposing more of my pussy. He wraps his lips around my throbbing clit and sucks like he might die if he doesn't make me come.
Seconds later, I feel myself tip over the edge and explode. Wave after wave of intense pleasure rocks through my body, and I shove him away, oversensitive. Flopping myself over onto my back, I try my best to catch my breath, staring at the man on his knees before me. His face shines with my arousal, his release, and a deep expression of satisfaction.
"Good girl," he pants and launches himself onto the bed next to me. "Very good girl."
I wet my hair and rinse away the smoothing products from yesterday, squishing and scrunching the wild waves back into existence. I don't want to look like the rest of those women, primand proper—I want to look feral. Terrifying. Ruthless. Like the witches of old.
With a modern touch, of course. I line my eyes with a kohl pencil and fill in my lips with a deep blood red. Dante waits outside the bathroom door, sitting on the bed. His black suit looks impeccable, a perfectly folded purple pocket square the only splash of color to be found.
"Are you ready?" he asks.
I give myself one last look before slipping on some combat boots over my torn black tights. The black lace-trimmed dress completes the look: goth bitch supreme. I don't know how Dante filled half the closet with clothes in my exact desired style, but best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I'm stuck here, anyway, so I might as well enjoy it.
Even if it means getting knocked up by his weird spawn. And, like he said, I wouldn't have to do the mothering. I pop the thing out and fuck off to Mexico, with tons of money in hand. The thought puts a tiny smile on my face as I turn back to Dante.
"Fuck, yeah. Let's do this."
The pair of us storm down the stairs into the waiting McLaren. Roman dips his chin to Dante and offers his hand to me with the passenger door open. I wave him away and settle myself, connecting my phone to the sound system. Nineties rap fills the air as Dante revs the engine and speeds us away to this goddamn tribunal.
He still hasn't really told me anything much, besides the fact that all of his… organization… will be there. Goetic Consortium. Seems to me like a bunch of rich fuckers who wanna get richer, but I'm profiting off this as well, so who gives a shit?
Bobbing my head to the beat, the scene around us changes from urban traffic to suburban yards, then vast rural estates. Old money. The oldest money in the country, it seems. Dante pulls off the paved road onto a gravel driveway. It's not the samePearford place from last night but similar. Marble fountains position themselves on either end of the massive porch—if you could call it that—the concrete pad lined with perfectly trimmed hedges. The grass remains green, even though we're well into autumn.
The massive building before us looks more like a castle than a house. Men in black suits and sunglasses flank the mahogany front doors, hands folded in front of them. They grasp the handles and open the doors for us as we approach, bowing slightly. I gape at them, heart in my throat.
This is fucked. This is so fucking weird. It's like we'reroyalty. I shouldn't be surprised, considering. But it still feels fucking weird.
Dante leads me by the hand to another set of doors as our shoes clack against the white marble floors. This whole place is nearly blinding white, and the room beyond is cloaked in shadow. It's disorienting, I can barely see a thing as Dante leads me to a small table with two chairs.
I sit, gripping the edge of the table, tempering my anxious breaths. I can slow my breathing, but I can't slow my heartbeat. Dante lays a comforting hand on my arm and whispers in my ear, "It's going to be fine. Promise."
A spotlight hits us from above, and I blink out into the bright light. Two others click on as well, illuminating another identical table and a raised dais. At the opposite table, that fucker Francisco sits looking smug. Upon the dais, there's a single chair. An incredibly tall man—that guy from last night—sits looking intrigued, idly petting his Rottweiler. The dog pants and flicks its gaze between me and its master.
If I wasn't nearly certain I'm about to die, I'd want to pet that dog. It looks soft and well-fed. Its golden-brown eyes match the man's, though the dog's fur is short and sleek. The man has long twisted locs piled high upon his head. He pulls a black silk hankyfrom the pocket of his deep crimson vest worn over a matching black dress shirt. He crosses his legs, and I spy a strange symbol embedded in gold on the sole of his shoe. Interesting.
It looks similar to the one plastered all over Dante's house but different. Angular lines and perfect circles. Upside-down crosses. If I tilt my head the right way, it almost looks like a crying skull.
Dante squeezes my arm again, gently, pulling my attention back to him.
"The Belial presides over the tribunal. He will hear both sides and make a decision. The decision is final and cannot be appealed. You don't have to worry about any legal tricks—no attorneys represent either side. Just tell him what happened, and I'm sure we'll get justice." Dante smiles and tips his head toward the man—The Belial.
I take a wavering breath and nod silently.
