Page 75 of Filthy Little Fix
"Dante," I groan, breathless. His grip is so fucking tight?—
"Not yet."
My eyes close. Everything is white, my skin is burning up?—
"Not yet, whore."
His growl calling me whore almost makes me come.
"D-Dante, don't—" I try to warn him, but he only clenches my neck harder, forcing the last air from my lungs.
I can't fucking think. It's all him, all his voice, all the water and steam, the feeling of him inside me, and my vision turns dark around the edges, a small pinprick of light left when he sounds like a fucking god, saying, "Come, you fucking slut."
I do. I do in the same moment he spills into me, with his teeth biting into my neck. I come all over his fingers, on the shower wall. My eyes are open, but I don't see anything. It's an eternity or a few seconds. It doesn't matter.
His teeth, dug into my skin, are replaced by a brush—a kiss. The hand that choked me loosens. "Breathe," he whispers.
The air fills my lungs again.
I inhale and exhale—Dante—Dante, Dante,Dante, and I feel the water sliding down my body again, I feel the cool tiles againstmy chest, and I feel Dante.Dante. His mouth pressed to my shoulder, his skin touching mine.
The fragments of reality click into place for something beyond us—the bathroom. Yes. My bathroom, in a Volkov mansion, and the shower is on. I look down. The water washes away the mess we made as a thin red trail runs down my leg. How deep he went. And Dante is dressed.
I push myself against the wet wall. His hands loosen on me in a silent permission for me to turn, still holding tightly enough to anchor my useless, trembling legs.
If it weren't for his hands, I would lose my balance atthis sight.
Dante. Soaked, dripping.
His hair, always impeccably combed back, is wet, heavy, darker, and slicked down, with a rebellious strand stuck to his forehead. Drops of the hot water run down his face in a delicious trail to his jaw, and his eyelashes hold droplets, looking thicker.
And the dress shirt. White. Transparent, clinging.
The rumors don't do Dante Volkov justice.
He is monstrous. Monstrous in the most stunning way possible. The definition of his muscles is obvious, and I want to trace the borders of each one. His skin, obscured by the fabric, is marked, painted—I see the shapes of scars, tattoos.
I stare at him.Dante. His thousand-dollar suit is soaked,ruinedbecause of me. I lean against his chest, feel the fabric of his shirt. He doesn't push me away. He looks at me with the same harshness I already know, attentive, and now, with softened edges. I slide my hand to his jaw. I feel his hair, the nape of his neck, with my fingers. I lean in. And I kiss him.
The hot water jets stream between us. They stream over our lips, and I feel them running down the back of his neck, on my fingers. Dante squeezes my waist. He pulls me closer, kisses me back, deeply, devouring me every time his tongue touches mine.
It's delicious to kiss him in the water.
I slide my thumb inside the collar of his shirt. "How much did this suit cost?" I whisper against his mouth.
He bites my lower lip. Hard. "Too much."
"Ruined…"
I tug at his shirt, trying to undo the buttons.
"The cost of dealing with you."
He steps away from me. Three steps. I'm forced to watch him leave the shower stall, dripping on the tiled floor as he walks. He reaches for a towel from the rack. He slides his blazer off, wearing that white—soaked transparent—shirt. His arms, his back. I'm fucking hypnotized. His back muscles bulge, contracting, relaxing as he dries off. The tattoos that run down his arms, the ones that look like snakes, and the ones that are words; the scars that cover his back, the ones that are faded with age. I can see them all clearly.
He looks like a fucking god.
"Stop staring and finish your shower," he orders, not looking at me.
