Page 43 of Blood Orange Christmas
The door clicks softly and Dante steps in, his silhouette cutting through the mist like a blade. He's shirtless, pants low on his hips, eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light filtering from the frosted window. "What the hell?" I snap, yanking my hand away, but I don't cover myself. The anger flares hotter, mixing with the unfinished heat between my legs. "Get out. Now."
He doesn't. Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him, the wood groaning in protest, and strips off his pants in one fluid motion, revealing the hard lines of his body, cock already half-erect and curving toward his navel. The air thickens with the scent of his skin, musk and rain and that faint, sharp tang of gun oil he never quite washes away. "Heard you," he says, voice low and gravelly, stepping into the shower without invitation. The water hits him immediately, plastering his dark hair to his forehead, rivulets tracing the scars across his chest—reminders of fights I wasn't there for, absences that mirror my own resentments. "Sounded like you needed help finishing what you started."
I shove him, palm flat against his wet chest, but he doesn't budge, just catches my wrist and pulls me closer, the spray enveloping us both. His body is a wall of heat against mine, cock brushing my thigh, thick and insistent. "You think you can just barge in? After everything?" My voice cracks with fury, the words spilling out like venom. I twist in his grip, but it's half-hearted. The anger twists into something darker, hungrier, my pussy clenching at the proximity, still slick from my own touch.
Dante's eyes narrow, water streaming down his face, but he doesn't back down. He spins me instead, slamming my back against the shower wall with controlled force, the marble biting cold into my spine. His hand fists in my wet hair, tilting my head back so the water pounds my face, forcing me to gasp for air. "Angry at me?" he growls, his free hand gripping my hip hard enough to leave marks, fingers digging into the soft flesh. "Good. Use it. I've taken your fire before, Serena. Let it burn me now." His mouth crashes down on mine, not gentle, a bruising kiss that tastes of salt and rage, his tongue invading like he's claiming territory long denied.
I bite his lip in retaliation, drawing a coppery tang that mixes with the water, and he hisses, pulling back just enough to flip me around again, my cheek pressed to the tile, ass arched out under the relentless spray. "You bastard," I spit, but my hands splay against the wall, bracing as his cock nudges between my thighs from behind, sliding through my slick folds without entering. The tease is maddening, the thick head bumping my clit with each shallow rock of his hips, sending jolts up my spine. The steam clogs my lungs, every breath heavy with the scent of soap and our shared arousal, the wet slap of skin already echoing in the enclosure.
He doesn't ask—he thrusts in hard, burying himself to the root in one brutal stroke, the stretch burning deliciously as my pussy yields to him. I cry out, the sound raw and echoing, my walls clenching around his girth, feeling every ridge and vein as he holds still for a beat, letting me adjust to the invasion. Water cascades over us, hot and soothing the sting, but nothing tempers the fury. "That's it," he rasps against my ear, his chestsliding slick against my back, one hand pinning my wrists above my head while the other snakes around to pinch my nipple, twisting until I arch. "Fight me with this tight little cunt. Squeeze me like you hate me—because you do, don't you?"
"Fuck you," I gasp, bucking back against him, the movement driving him deeper, the angle hitting that spot inside that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. He sets a punishing pace immediately, hips snapping forward with wet, forceful slaps that drown out the shower's roar, his balls smacking my clit rhythmically. The sensation is overwhelming—fullness and friction, the water making everything glide smoother, hotter, my skin hypersensitive where his fingers bruise my hips. I twist my head, catching his mouth in a messy, angry kiss over my shoulder, teeth clashing, tongues battling as I grind back, meeting every thrust with my own spiteful rhythm.
"You're soaked for it," he taunts, breath hot and ragged in my ear, his hand releasing my wrists to slide down, fingers finding my clit and rubbing in rough circles that make my knees buckle. "All that anger, and your pussy's begging for my cock. Admit it—you've wanted this, wanted to make me pay for every night I wasn't there." He punctuates the words with a deeper thrust, grinding against my cervix, the pressure building like a storm in my core, coiling tight and vicious.
"Yes—God, yes, I hate you for it," I moan, the confession torn from me as pleasure spikes, my body betraying the rage with every flutter around him. He pulls out suddenly, leaving me empty and whining, then hauls me upright, spinning me to face him. The water blinds me momentarily, but I see the feral glint in his eyes, the way his cock juts up, slick and veined, demanding. "On your knees," he orders, but I shove him instead, reversing our positions so his back hits the wall.
"Not like that," I snarl, dropping down anyway, but taking control—my hands on his thighs, nails digging in as I take him into my mouth in one swift motion, sucking hard, tongue swirling the head to taste myself on him. He groans, head thunking back against the tile, fingers tangling in my hair, but I set the pace, hollowing my cheeks and bobbing deep, gagging slightly on his length before pulling back with a pop. The water streams into my mouth, mixing with his pre-cum, salty and bitter, fueling the wildness. "You don't get to order me anymore," I say, rising to my feet, pushing him down to the shower floor in a tangle of limbs.
He lands on his ass with a splash but pulls me down onto his lap in the same breath, our bodies slick and sliding. I straddle him reverse, facing away, gripping his knees for leverage as I sink onto his cock, the position folding me open, letting him hit deeper than before. The tile is hard under his back, but he doesn't complain—just grips my ass, spreading me wider as I ride him furiously, hips slamming down with wet smacks that send water spraying. "Like this," I demand, voice breaking on a gasp as his thumb finds my asshole, circling the tight ring teasingly. "Make it hurt, make me feel every second you were gone."
He presses in, just the tip, the dual penetration making me shudder, my pussy clenching harder around his cock as I bounce, the burn exquisite and filthy. His other hand reaches around to slap my clit lightly, the sting pushing me closer to the edge, sensations layering—fullness in my core, pressure at my ass, the relentless grind against my g-spot. "You're a wild one," he grunts, thrusting up to meet me, the rhythm erratic now, water pooling around us like a shallow sea. "Riding me like you want to break me. Come on, Serena, soak my cock with that angry cum."
The orgasm hits me like a slap, ripping through my body in violent waves, my pussy spasming wildly around him, juices mixing with the water as I cry out, back arching, nails raking his thighs. He doesn't stop, flipping us over in the slick puddle so I'm on my back, legs hooked over his shoulders in a pretzel fold that stretches me impossibly, his cock plunging back in with renewed force. The new angle is savage, his body folding mine nearly double, every thrust bottoming out as he chases his release, grunting with each snap of his hips. "Fuck—your cunt's pulling me under," he rasps, eyes locked on where we're joined, the sight obscene with water and slickness.
I claw at his back, drawing red lines that well with blood, the metallic scent cutting through the steam, and he comes with a guttural roar, spilling hot inside me, pulses flooding my walls as he grinds deep. We collapse in a heap, breaths mingling raggedly, the shower still pouring over us like an endless rain, washing away the evidence but not the fury that's only banked, not extinguished. His hand lingers on my thigh, possessive even in the afterglow, and I shove it away weakly, the anger flickering back to life amid the sated haze.. He tries to speak afterwards. I shake my head. I’m not ready for words yet. He accepts that and leaves, quiet in his understanding.
Morning comes wrong and bright, the kind of winter sun that pretends it’s warm when the air still bites your knuckles. I wake to the sound of wheels on wood—little plastic ones—and a whisper that means negotiation. “Cars don’t sleep under pillows,” Marco tells the stuffed elephant, very serious. “They sleep on roads.”
“Roads,” Dante echoes, voice low and worn, and I don’t have to open my eyes to see him crouched on the rug in the chair corner, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled, the whole posture saying, I’mstaying right here whether the world likes it or not. He looks up when he feels me watching. The man has radar for my eyes. He touches two fingers to his own chest like he’s taking attendance. “Present.”
I push the blanket back and stand into the cold, rubbing my arms. “You should have slept in a bed.”
“I slept in the chair,” he says, like that’s the victory he wanted. “Marco wanted a guard.”
“Guard,” Marco repeats, satisfied, and rams the car into the baseboard softly so the dog doesn’t feel left out. Pippo lifts his head from the rug, decides we’re all accounted for, and thumps his tail twice.
I don’t forgive him right away. I don’t know how to do it quickly. The ache that lived in me when I saw the empty bed last night is still there, a bruise under the skin you can’t see until you press it. He wasn’t there when our son went missing. He was out in his war and we were in ours. And then I saw him carry Marco through the dark, one hand spread over the small of his back like he was holding the roof up with his palm, and another ache arrived, different and older, the one that knows what it looks like when a man chooses the right thing in the exact second that matters.
I pull a sweater on over yesterday’s shirt and brace my hands on the sink. The mirror in the little bathroom is the kind that shows what’s true without helping you lie. My eyes say tired. My mouth says stubborn. My hands say kitchen. I splash water, tie my hair, and when I step back into the room, Dante is holding Marco’s shoe in one hand and the laces in the other, crouched low, shoulders broad, the whole picture so domestic, it stings.
“You remember the knot?” he asks.
Marco nods like he invented it. “Bunny goes around the tree and into the cave.”
“Twice,” Dante says, voice soft, patient. “So it doesn’t come loose when you run.”
They look up at me together, and I can feel the forgiveness putting its hand out. I let it touch my sleeve. Not my throat yet. Not my heart. But I don’t push it away.
“Breakfast,” I say, and Marco cheers like I promised him Rome.
In the big kitchen, the air is cold and clean the way a room feels right before you make it yours. Gabriella is already there with coffee, which means I love her in ways that don’t need words. She presses a cup into my hands and another into Dante’s and tells Marco the saints said good morning. He salutes the copper pots in case they tell the saints.
We eat simply, bread warmed in the oven just enough to wake it. Jam from a jar with a label that looks like someone’s auntie wrote it. Eggs soft with a little lemon folded in because the three of us have a language now and that’s one sentence in it. Marco eats like a man with work soon. Dante watches him like a man who found oxygen again and doesn’t trust it to stay.
“I can’t change that I wasn’t in the room when it went wrong,” he says, low, when Marco drops to the floor with Pippo to “teach” him how to park a car. “But I can change where I am when it happens again.”
“It can’t happen again,” I say, because that’s the rule, not the hope.
