Marking me as his territory.
“My God,” I said breathlessly.
“Come here,” he murmured, gathering me into his arms.
He pulled me away from the wall and I fell limp in his embrace. He walked me over to the sprawling marble bathroom countertop before perching me on top of it. He peered over the crown of my head into the mirror behind me, straightening his tie and shoving his cock back into his pants. And as I sat there, still trying to get the room to stop tilting and twirling on its own axis, his words dawned on me.
“…so, that means if I’m not back in twenty, use this phone to call the only number in the contacts.”
I forced my gaze to focus, and I found him standing there, looking as if nothing had happened. His cheeks weren’t flushed. He hadn’t broken out in a sweat. He wasn’t panting hard, or even panting at all. His clothes were pristine, as if I hadn’t even touched him. There was no makeup anywhere on his shoulders or his chest. There was no wrinkling from where I had grabbed him and crushed my lips to his. There was no evidence of me at all. Just some dirty little secret to be kept away from the world.
It made me feel so fucking inadequate, and the swell of emotion shocked me.
“Brielle, did you hear me?” Dante asked.
I took the phone from him. “Whose number is it again?”
He backed away and repositioned my dress over my legs. He slid his hands down my thighs in little spurts at a time, as if he were dusting me off. He pulled the piece of fabric over my leg, hiding my thigh away from the slit that had given us such easy access early.
It… sort of made me feel like he didn’t want to see them.
“It’s Axton,” he said as he turned toward the door. “He’ll know what to do if you have to call.”
I cleared my throat. “Twenty minutes, you said?”
He unlocked the door and slipped out. “Yep, and not a second over. Got it?”
I nodded mindlessly as I stared down at the phone. “Yeah, yeah. Got it.”
“Lock the door behind me.”
“Uh huh.”
“Brielle.”
The harshness of his voice almost brought tears to my eyes. “I hear you, Dante. Just go.”
And without another word, he left.
As I sat there with his cum still dripping down between my thighs, I stared blankly at the basic-ass cell phone in my hand. A flip phone, of all things. I scoffed and hopped off the bathroom counter. I grimaced at the way his mark dripped down my legs. Nothing but a cum dumpster, I suppose. I took note of the time before setting the phone down. I rushed to the door and locked it back, heaving a sigh of relief as I did so.
Then, all I had to do was wait.
What the hell do I do in a bathroom for twenty minutes?
I walked over to the paper towel dispenser and pulled some out. As I cleaned myself up, or tried to at least, I counted down the seconds in my head. I discarded the paper towels and went straight for the folded washcloths on a wall-mounted holder next to the sink. Unsanitary as fuck, if anyone asked me about it, but they smelled clean. Bleached, even.
I ran it under some warm water, rubbed some soap into it, and cleaned the rest of myself up.
“Come on, Dante, where are you?” I muttered to myself.
Ten minutes had passed. Then, eleven. Then, twelve. And not once had I heard a thing. There was no commotion. No gunfire. No crossfire to even speak of. At the very least, I expected a scene to be caused. Yelling, or a bullet nailing one of the chandeliers, or something! There was nothing, though. Nothing outside of the faint live music playing in the background while the soft murmurs of conversations passing by filtered through the locked door.
I damn near convinced myself that Dante had lied to me.
Until a knock came at the door just shy of the eighteen-minute mark.
“Thank fuck,” I said as I flipped the lock on the door. “I was getting worried that—you’re not Dante.”
