Page 35 of Ruthless Silence
Only then do I pull back, looking up at her wrecked form. She's collapsed on the desk, thighs still trembling, pussy still clenching on nothing. Sweat makes her skin glow. Her breasts rise and fall with ragged breaths. Contracts stick to her back, probably ruined by her sweat and arousal.
I stand, my cock so hard it hurts, pressing painfully against my zipper. She looks at the obvious bulge, then up at my face with hazy confusion.
"You didn't…" she starts, voice hoarse from screaming.
I shake my head, signing: "This was for you. Only you."
The look on her face, surprise mixing with something softer, something dangerous, almost breaks my resolve. She reaches for my belt, but I catch her hands, bringing them to my lips instead. I can taste her on my own skin, and the flavor makes me groan silently.
"But you need," she tries.
"I need you to remember this," I sign. "Remember who made you feel this. Remember who you belong to."
She's suspended there on the precipice between innocence and knowledge, between what was and what will be. Not quite virginity lost, but innocence definitely shattered.
I help her sit up, noting how she winces at the sensitivity between her thighs. My desk is destroyed: papers everywhere,her arousal actually dripping onto the mahogany surface. The whole room smells like sex and jasmine.
Perfect.
She's mine now in every way that matters. And we both know it.
16 - Ana
Ten days. Ten days of marriage, and I’m still on his desk with my thighs spread and his taste on my lips. Dante still stands between my legs, having just guided me upright, his hands possessive on my hips, thumbs rubbing gentle circles as if apologizing for the brutality of the last hour. The mahogany beneath my bare ass is slick—my fluids and his spit pooling on the polished wood, the stench of sex and sweat rising like incense. The desk is a graveyard of paperwork, contracts and ledgers and legal documents all ruined, crumpled and torn, speckled with saliva, cum, and, soon enough, thin streaks of my blood. Not a single square inch of this surface is untouched by evidence of what he just did to me.
Three times. Three. Dante made me shatter, my body rebelling against the limits I thought I had, my mind blurring at the edges from too much sensation. I’m trembling still, unsure if the aftershocks are from pleasure or the way his eyes stay fixed on me—black and bottomless and so, so hungry. He looks as if he’s considering eating me alive. His face is raw with exertion, jaw clenched and cheeks flushed; the stubble lining his jaw is darkened with my slick, his chin marked with faint crescent wounds from where I raked him with my nails. I see my reflection in his gaze: skirt rucked up to my waist, blouse hanging open on one arm, the rest of it torn and balled on the floor. My throat is ringed in bruises and bite marks, hot and tender where he marked me. I see the bloom of his fingerprints on my inner thighs, a mosaic of need and violence. There arebruises on my wrists, too, evidence of the way he pinned me down as I screamed his name into the bones of the desk.
There is nothing clinical or gentle about this. There never was. Virgins are supposed to be terrified, aren’t they? But I’m not afraid. Not even as I notice the way his cock, still hard and leaking, strains against the fine wool of his suit pants. The bulge is obscene, the outline branded into my retinas. I should be afraid of what’s about to happen, but fear is a distant pulse, nearly drowned out by the rush of heat that floods me, violent and absolute. My thighs clench around his hips, my calves shaking from the strain of holding him close. I want him closer still. He reads my desperation and grins—crooked and wolfish and cruel, but also, somehow, shy. For a moment we are two animals trying to decide if this is going to be mating or murder.
He brings his hands up to frame my face, palms warm and slightly rough on my cheeks. He’s careful not to touch my hair, as if remembering the way I flinched the first time he tried. Instead, he holds me steady as he leans in, mouth hovering just over my lips. His breath, ragged and sweet with the aftertaste of me, tingles on my tongue. When he kisses me, it’s not gentle. It’s the same as before—consuming, greedy, like he’s sure this is our only chance and he needs to memorize the taste of me before someone comes to drag him away. I feel the friction of his stubble burn against my chin, my jaw, the soft underside of my throat. He bites my lower lip until I whimper and then soothes the wound with his tongue, whispering something in Italian I can’t catch.
He pulls back, just enough that his eyes can scan my body again. This time, slower. I see the calculation in his stare, the way he catalogs every wound he’s made and every place where I still haven’t learned to shield myself from him. There’s a sick pleasure in knowing I’m exposed, that he could ruin me with a word, but also that he chooses not to. For now. My heart drumsagainst my ribs, frantic and giddy. I can’t tell if it’s because I trust him or because I’m too far gone to care about trust at all.
His gaze slides down, pausing on the place where my thighs meet, the insides glistening with the aftermath of his mouth. I shift, self-conscious, but he just brings his thumb up, presses it into the wetness, and then slides the same thumb between his lips. He tastes me, closes his eyes, and lets out a shuddering breath. When he opens them, something has changed. There’s pride, yes, but also awe. Like I’m a miracle he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch.
“Fair is fair,” I rasp, my voice wrecked from the screaming, from the ways he’s ripped me open. “You had your taste.”
I reach for his belt, hands unsteady but determined. The buckle is cold, the leather stiff, and my fingers fumble for a moment before getting the prong free. He doesn’t stop me, just watches, arms folded behind his back—a pose of submission that’s also a threat. He could overpower me at any second, but he wants to see what I’ll do when I get my way.
I manage to free the belt, and his pants slide down a fraction. I grab the waistband and tug, exposing the line of dark hair that disappears down to where his cock waits, thick and angry and already leaking. I freeze, suddenly unsure, adrenaline crashing into embarrassment. He’s huge. I mean, physically, it’s almost comedic—like someone designed a weapon, not a body part. The head glistens, flushed nearly purple, and I see the veins pulsing along the shaft. I can’t help the little gasp that escapes me. It’s a sound you’d make if you saw a python or a loaded gun pointed at your face.
He sees my fear, and for the first time since I met him, Dante looks almost bashful. He places one hand gently over mine, steadying my grip. “Ana,” he signs, his free hand spelling out my name slow and careful. “Tonight is just about you.”
“No,” I whisper, and I use my legs to pull him closer, locking my ankles behind his thighs. I can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles strain not to crush me. “I want all of you. I want this.”
He hesitates, his hands shaking as he brushes the hair from my face. Then he bends down and kisses me again, softer this time. I taste myself on his lips, and it’s strangely sweet. I shiver, my body responding with renewed urgency. I can’t believe I’m already greedy for more.
He lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging at my entrance. I’m slick and still swollen from what came before, but he’s careful, pressing forward only a fraction at a time. The first push is sharp—pain like a knife, a splitting from the inside, and my whole body locks up. I dig my nails into his biceps, my teeth clench so hard I taste iron. He freezes, immediately, and strokes my cheek with his thumb.
“Breathe,” he signs, one-handed, eyes urgent but soft. “Relax. I won’t hurt you.”
I want to laugh at that—what is hurt, after all, except a kind of invasion? A forced intimacy. But I do as he says. I pull air into my lungs, slow and deliberate, and force my muscles to unclench. He waits, impossibly patient, until I give him a nod.
He starts again, using only the weight of his hips to ease further inside. The stretch is obscene, bordering on unbearable. I feel the pop as he passes the last resistance, and then he’s all the way in, buried to the hilt. I can’t breathe for a moment. My world is reduced to the fullness, the sensation of being split in half and also being completed, like this is the shape I was always meant to make.
Dante’s face is pressed to my shoulder. His breath is hot and ragged in the hollow of my neck, his body shaking with the effort not to move. I realize, with a strange flash of pleasure, that he’sjust as overwhelmed as I am. He’s holding himself back, clinging to the last shreds of self-control.
We stay like that, frozen. He inside me, me impaled and gasping and unsure if I want to scream or beg or cry. I feel my body adjust, the muscles softening, the pain easing into a dull ache and then, miraculously, into something like pleasure. I want movement. I need it.
