Page 36 of Ruthless Silence
I tilt my hips up, trying to get him deeper, and the motion makes us both gasp. He looks at me—wild, unblinking—and then, finally, he starts to move. Slow, almost reverent at first, withdrawing just enough to make me feel the loss before pushing back in. Each thrust is a measured pressure, a testing of boundaries. I cling to him, wrapping my arms around his neck, anchoring myself so I don’t slip or shatter again. The friction is exquisite, a raw scrape that quickly turns slick. I feel the blood, too, a hot trickle down my thigh, but it mingles with our juices and I don’t care. It’s proof of what’s real, what’s happening.
Gradually, he picks up the pace. The desk rocks beneath us, the sound of flesh on flesh obscenely loud in the quiet room. Papers slide to the floor, pens roll off the edge and clatter onto the tile. The rhythm builds, and with it my own arousal. I can feel something coiling inside me again, impossible and undeniable. The desk creaks beneath us, my body sliding back with each thrust, and then Dante's hands are on my hips, holding me steady, anchoring me to him as he drives deeper.
I'm crying now, I realize. Tears streaming hot down my cheeks, not from pain but from the overwhelming intensity. I can't speak, can't think, can only feel as he fills me over and over. The world narrows to the points where our bodies connect—his cock inside me, his hands on my skin, his breath in my hair.
He shifts his angle, and suddenly he's hitting something that makes white sparks explode behind my eyes. I cry out, a sound I've never made before, half-sob and half-prayer. He does itagain, deliberately, watching my face as I unravel. His hands tighten on my hips, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave more bruises, and I welcome them. I want his marks all over me.
The pressure builds, impossible and relentless. I didn't think I could come again, not after what he'd already done to me with his mouth, but this is different. This is deeper, more primal. My body clenches around him, milking him, and I feel him swell even larger inside me.
"Please," I gasp, not even sure what I'm begging for. "Please, Dante."
His rhythm falters at the sound of his name. His eyes lock with mine, and I see something break in him—the last thread of restraint snapping. He surges forward, one hand tangling in my hair despite my earlier flinching, the other gripping my thigh so hard I'll find finger-shaped bruises tomorrow. His hips slam into mine with brutal force, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the study.
The orgasm hits me like a gunshot—sudden, violent, and all-consuming. I scream his name as my body convulses around him, waves of pleasure so intense they border on pain washing through me. My vision blurs, my fingernails drawing blood as they rake down his back through his shirt.
He follows me over the edge with a silent roar, his body going rigid as he spills inside me. I feel the hot pulse of him, filling me completely, marking me from the inside. We stay locked together, trembling and gasping, as the aftershocks ripple through us.
Slowly, the world comes back into focus. The ruined desk beneath me. The torn contracts. The scent of sex and sweat and blood heavy in the air. Dante's weight pressing me down, his breath ragged against my neck.
For a long, long moment, the only sound in the room is our breathing, both of us gasping for air like we’ve been drowned and resurrected.
What have we done?
What can’t be undone?
He finally pulls out, and the emptiness is immediate, sharp. I wince, legs shaking, the slick mess of him and me dripping from between my thighs onto the ruined paperwork. There’s blood, too. My blood and his cum, a pinkish stain spreading over ten million dollars’ worth of contracts. My innocence—if I ever had any—soaking into mahogany and vellum and flesh.
He helps me sit up, his movements reverent now, almost apologetic. He pulls a crisp handkerchief from his pocket and dabs away the worst of the mess, gentle as anything. I can barely look at him, the enormity of what we’ve done settling over me like a shroud.
My shirt is a loss, buttons scattered across the office like teeth after a fistfight. Dante shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, the wool still warm from his body and stinking of both of us—cigarettes, sweat, and sex.
This is ridiculous. This is irreversible.
"This changes nothing," I say, voice small.
He nods, but his hands move differently. They say: "Changes everything."
17 - Ana
The red dress slides over my skin like shame.
Three days since I betrayed everything. Three days since I spread my legs for Papa's killer on his mahogany desk. Three days, and I still feel the phantom ache of him inside me, a hollowness that makes me want to claw my skin off.
I can't look at myself in the mirror. Every time I try, I see her: the whore who begged for more, who screamed his name like a prayer. My fingers trace the bruises on my hips, purple-green marks where his hands gripped too hard. Evidence of my betrayal painted on my skin like accusations.
This is the same dress I chose when Maria took me shopping, when I still thought I could keep my distance. When I was just a girl playing at revenge, not a woman who knew how it felt to come apart in her enemy's hands. The neckline dips low enough to show the fading marks on my throat where he sucked too hard. The fabric whispers with each movement, reminding me how it felt when he bunched it around my waist.
"Papa, forgive me," I sign to the mirror, the movements violent enough to hurt my wrists, each gesture a self-inflicted wound.
The bedroom door opens without warning. Dante enters, already dressed in one of his dark suits, collar high to hide the scars I've tasted. The sight of him makes my stomach clench with self-loathing and something worse: want. Even now, hating myself, hating him, my traitorous body responds to his presence.Heat pools shamefully between my thighs, and I want to die from the betrayal of it.
He sets a folded note on the dresser without looking at me directly.Car in twenty minutes. First public appearance. Don't embarrass the family.
Then he's gone, but his cologne lingers. Cigarettes and sandalwood. The scent makes my pussy clench with unwanted memory. Three days since he taught me what my body could do, and I hate that I still crave it.
I zip the dress with trembling fingers. The red silk clings in all the places he's marked, a second skin that feels like confession. The fabric catches on my bruised hip, and I bite back a whimper. Each ache is a reminder of how thoroughly I've betrayed Papa's memory.
The car feels like a coffin lined in leather.
