Dante stares up at me with something raw in his expression. Something that makes my chest ache.
"You're perfect," he says. "Fucking perfect."
I roll my hips.
Experimental.
We both moan.
"Again," he demands.
I do it again.
Lift myself up.
Sink back down.
The friction is exquisite. Every nerve ending in my body lights up. I find a rhythm. Slow at first. Careful. His wound. His stitches. I can't forget.
But then his hands tighten on my hips.
"Faster."
I speed up.
Rise and fall.
Rise and fall.
"That's it." His voice drops lower. Darker. "Ride my cock like you own it."
A moan escapes me.
His words.
God, his words.
"You like that?" He thrusts up to meet me, and I cry out. "Like when I talk to you?"
"Yes."
The word comes out breathless.
Desperate.
"You're so wet for me." He pulls me down harder, drives himself deeper. "Can feel you dripping down my cock."
I whimper.
My pace increases.
I'm chasing something now. Something building low in my belly. Coiling tighter with every thrust.
"Been thinking about this for two years," Dante growls. "Thinking about what you'd feel like. What you'd sound like when I fucked you."
"Dante—"
"Reality's better." He slams up into me, and I scream. "So much fucking better."
