Unorthodox (Sick Love Book 1) Page 13

  But Dante doesn’t let that happen. Instead, his eyes roam over my body, and he shoves my shirt up to my neck. Then his hand is massaging my breasts, over my sports bra. My nipples tighten, and I squeeze his shoulders, enjoy the flex of hard muscle, and his firm hand on me.

  My stomach flutters, heart races, and if I think about this too hard, I know I’ll panic. Not because of what we’re doing, but because of what would happen to me if Max found out.

  I glance behind Dante, see the door is almost closed.

  Almost, but not quite.

  He freezes, his eyes catching where mine went.

  “When is he back?” I ask, and when I say the words aloud, I marvel at the fact I haven’t asked before this. At how little I’ve demanded for myself.

  Dante swallows, his fingers skimming across the tops of my breasts as he closes his eyes a second, like he’s fighting an internal battle with himself. “Later,” he says softly, “later tonight.”

  Those flutters in my stomach turn to knots. “Where is he?”

  Dante’s hazel eyes lock on mine, and his fingers graze my collarbone. “I don’t know.” I’m not sure, but I don’t think he’s lying, the way he’s looking at me. The way he said it. I once overheard my father tell his guards he always knew when a man lied. “Their eye contact is shit. Real men honor their commitments and real men don’t look away.”

  I think about Max’s unnerving habit of staring without blinking.

  My father was full of shit.

  “Then we should hurry up,” I tell Dante with a soft smile, running my hands down his biceps, shifting my hips underneath him.

  He looks down, between us, and I see him bite his lip.

  Warmth courses through me, but as Dante’s fingers skim over my stomach, so agonizingly slow that my mind starts to work overtime, panicking about all the things that could go wrong with this, I wonder what the fuck I’m doing.

  But then another thought replaces my anxiety: “At least she gets used like a whore should.” Max’s words from four nights ago.

  Fuck you, Max.

  Dante’s fingers find my inner thigh, and he picks his head up to look at me. As if he’s checking on me. Again, I wonder where he came from. Why he’s so careful. What those letters and numbers on his forearm mean.

  What hell he survived before he found a home with Max. Why he’s willing to betray him for someone he barely knows.

  “Are you okay?” he asks me quietly.

  I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale, still gripping Dante’s upper arms. Nodding, I force a smile. “Yes.” I suck my lip between my teeth, looking up at him through my lashes. “I told you,” I say softly, “this isn’t my first time.”

  With that, he slants his mouth over mine, and warmth flushes through me. I slide my hands down his arms, his torso, savoring the hard feel of him. When I reach the waistband of his boxers, I pull them down, and he helps me. When they get far enough down his legs, he uses his foot to push them off.

  His tongue sweeps into my mouth and I feel his hard cock against my stomach as he presses closer to me.

  “You taste so good,” he groans, his breath skating over my lips as he breaks away for a moment so we can breathe.

  I arch myself up, wanting him closer. He reaches between us as he devours my mouth again, and I spread my thighs wider.

  His cock nudges against my wet entrance. He feels bigger than what I was used to, and I tense. He notices. “I’ll be gentle,” he promises me, and it sounds like that. A promise. Something real.

  Something Max would never do.

  Never say.

  He pushes into me and I gasp, my arms wrapped tight around his back, nails skimming the hard muscles of his shoulder. Aside from a slight pressure, it doesn’t hurt.

  In fact, it feels far better than anything I’ve ever had. But maybe that’s because it’s wrapped up in promises.

  This is it.

  This is the way out.

  “Breathe,” he whispers over my mouth, almost amused, one hand planted beside my head, the other still wrapped around himself as he slowly plunges deeper into me.

  I take a breath, and his eyes search mine as he moves his hand to the bed, boxing me in underneath him. I inhale, taking in his warm, masculine scent. Like vanilla dipped in darkness.

  What happened to you? Why are you here? I want to ask him so many things, want to tell him so many, too. But as he pushes further into me, all of my questions are shattered in my mind, my entire focus on him.

  “You feel so damn good,” he says softly, and he thrusts his hips slowly, driving further in.

  I can’t hold back his name on my mouth as pleasure shoots through me as he stretches me.

  “Almost there,” he whispers, and he sounds nearly…amused. Cocky. He’s fucking cocky. For a split second I wonder if he gets it from his boss, but I push that thought aside. He’s nothing like Max.

  Don’t think about him.

  When Dante is all the way in, his hips meeting mine, I whimper, gasping on his name again, and he kisses me, wet, sloppy. Passionate.

  He starts to fuck me, a sense of fullness making my legs tremble.

  He sucks my lip between his teeth as he pulls back slightly to look at me, moving at a slow pace. “You’re incredible,” he says softly, almost reverently as he brushes a lock of hair from my brow. He dives his head toward my neck, gently sucking on my skin as I arch by back, meeting his thrusts.

  “Fuck, Addison,” he groans against my skin as I clench my walls tighter around him. My mind still races, though, wondering if he really enjoys it. Wondering why he’s not cruel. Why he isn’t hurting me or hitting me or making my skin crawl.

  It’s almost hard to enjoy it this way, with him being so gentle. I’ve spent so long thinking I deserve the pain, this is…almost hard to take.

  “You’re perfect,” he says abruptly, picking his head up from my shoulder, almost as if he read my mind. His green-brown eyes search mine as he moves faster, one hand shoving my sports bra up to my throat.

  “I want this off,” he says, slowing his pace. I wrap my legs around him, not willing to let him go to undress me. He smiles as I pry my hands off of his broad back, lift my arms so he can pull my shirt off, tossing it to the floor.

  Then my bra.

  But he doesn’t pull that off.

  He only gets my arms out, and when it’s around my neck, he pulls tight, clenching the fabric in one fist, choking me. My first instinct is to grab at it, but his eyes are warm as he whispers, “It’s okay. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop, okay?”

  I swallow down the lump in my throat, try to ease my racing heart as I nod. This will help me like it.

  He presses his brow to mine, fucking me faster, pulling the bra tighter around my neck. I can breathe, but just barely.

  “Do you want me to stop, Addison?” he teases me, his words against my mouth.

  It’s a strange sensation, having my airway restricted like this, but it makes me all the wetter. With every thrust into me, we can both hear it, too, just how much I don’t want him to stop. How much the pain helps me get off.

  I shake my head, my hands back on his shoulders, letting him choke me.

  He kisses me again, roughly, with teeth. Then, all at once, he pulls out, letting the bra go, trailing his calloused palms down my body, until his head is level with my pussy.

  His hands come to my inner thighs, spreading me wide as he keeps his eyes on mine.

  I feel exposed like this, dizzy with the loss of him inside of me, and I make to close my legs.

  “Nuh, uh,” he says quietly, and his breath is hot against my slit. “Let me make you feel good.”

  “But…” I prop myself up on my elbows, shaking my head, my face flushing as his gaze dips down, taking me in. It’s not the first time, but it’s the first time I wasn’t humiliated for it.

  “But nothing,” he says quietly, not meeting my eye, looking his fill of me. “You’re fucking perfect.” Every word makes
me shiver, sends more warmth to my core. Then, his eyes finally meeting mine again, he licks the length of me and despite the way my face feels so hot with him watching my every reaction, I can’t stop the moan that escapes my mouth.

  He does it again, licking my entire slit, his tongue teasing my hole before he pushes it in, groaning at the taste of me. I lie down, completely on my back, my knees spread as wide as they’ll go as I thread my fingers through his hair.

  “Fuck, you taste so good,” he says softly against me. My face flames hotter, wondering when he’s going to hurt me. Trick me. Debase me. But before I can hold onto that thought for too long, he’s sucking on my throbbing clit, two fingers inside of my aching pussy.

  He licks and sucks, deep groans coming from his mouth and reverberating against me as he does, as if this is pleasure for him instead of me.

  But it’s mine, too.

  It doesn’t take long before I’m writhing underneath him, my orgasm building low in my belly, every limb coiled tight beneath him. And when I’m coming, saying his name over and over and over, he reaches a hand up to palm my breast, tugging on my nipple, sending shockwaves through my body.

  Before I come down from the high, my pussy gushing with my release, he climbs back over me, pushes his rock-hard cock into me and fucks me harder than before, swinging one of my legs over his shoulder.

  His hand comes over my throat, my attention snapping back to his face as he drives into me.

  “Look down,” he says quietly, but his voice is commanding. He glances between us. “Look at me inside of you, baby. God, we’re fucking perfect.”

  I do as he says, my hands fisting in the sheets, and I watch his thick cock driving into me, hear us as we collide together. He’s right.

  It is perfect.

  I know he’s about to find his own release when his thrusts become relentless, and he says, “Fuck, Addison,” and his warm release shoots inside of me.

  I wrap my legs around him, clench my walls against him and he groans again, holding me closer.

  When he’s spent, he lies on top of me, covering me with his entire body, still inside of me. I feel his heaving breaths against my chest, the weight of him heavy, but I don’t want him off.

  Instead, I wrap my legs tighter around him, hug him close to me, riding the wave of oxytocin. I know all about that. Long nights spent searching online all the reasons I’d stopped trying to run from my father and started spreading my legs for him on command. All the reasons that I felt hollow after he walked out when he was done using me.

  All the reasons I wanted him to stay.

  I force those memories from my mind, not wanting my father to ruin this, too.

  After a long, blissful moment, Dante pulls out of me, kissing my brow as he does, moving slowly so as not to hurt me. His hands brush against my breasts, almost possessively, and he smiles at me.

  I blush, and for the first time since I’ve been here, I smile, too.

  But as soon as he half pulls on his boxers, I push down my bra, running my fingers through my hair as he sits on the end of my bed, one hand on my calf, stroking my shin softly as he stares at me.

  “Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

  I open my mouth to tell him I’m more okay than I’ve been in a while when a cold voice cuts off my words. “This is interesting.”

  A strangled cry escapes my mouth and I slap my hand over it, scrambling away from Dante, my head colliding painfully with the headboard of my bed.

  Dante twists around to take in Max, standing by the doorway. He scrambles to pull up his boxers all the way just as I yank the covers up, keeping one hand over my mouth to hold in my scream, even though I’m not sure I could scream right now. I’m panting, trying to catch my breath, as if someone kicked me in the stomach.

  “I’ve got to say, Dante, in all the years you’ve been here, this is by far the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

  Dante’s back is to me, and I see his shoulders tense. I press myself as far back against the headboard as I can, knees to my chest, blankets up to my chin.

  Dante doesn’t say a word.

  Max has his hands in his pockets and he’s leaning against the doorframe, nothing but mild amusement on his face. There are shadows under his eyes and the top two buttons of his black shirt are undone. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms and I see the corded muscle beneath tense as he turns his gaze to me.

  It’s the only sign that he’s at all affected by what he just walked in on. Everything else about him is cold indifference.

  It makes me more nervous than if he had started yelling.

  “Addison, take off that blanket.”

  Dante starts to speak before I can react. “We didn’t...” he shakes his head and tries again. The fear in his voice is unnerving. “We didn’t do anything, we just—”

  “Addison.” Max ignores Dante completely.

  All of the boldness I felt with Dante is gone. All of the anger, the hope for a plan. The scheming. The satisfaction. All of it is gone when I look into Max’s cold, dead eyes.

  Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I grip my sheets tighter, grey fabric bunched in my hand. But I know if I say anything, the words will come out all wobbly. Weak.

  I don’t speak.

  Max keeps staring. In a contest, he’d win every time. But I can at least give him some competition.

  I hold my head up higher. Dante still hasn’t moved from the bed.

  Max doesn’t look away, but I see his hand move inside of his pocket. There can’t be a weapon in there, unless it’s a pocket knife or a razor blade. But the gun on his hip would work better than that.

  Unless... he plans to torture us before he kills us.

  His hand goes still, and I force myself to look him in the eye. “I don’t want to repeat myself. If I have to ask you again,” his eyes cut to his guard, “I’ll show you just how many pounds of flesh you’ve got to carve from a man before he finally fucking dies.”

  Dante still doesn’t move.

  I’m gripping the sheets so tight in my fist, my hand aches. “It’s not what it looks like,” I start to say, even though that’s bullshit. “We didn’t do anything—”

  Max doesn’t wait to hear what we didn’t do. He pushes away from the door almost violently, crosses the room and rips the sheet from my hands even as I try to tug it back, away from him. It’s useless.

  He flips the blankets down the bed and straightens, glaring down at my bare legs. I extend them out, cross them tight as I try to yank my shirt down to cover myself. He leans down and grabs both of my wrists in one hand, the other clamping down around my thigh.

  I’m aware Dante has gotten off the bed. I see him behind Max, but he’s taking steps away from us, almost slowly, like he could actually sneak out of here.

  Max is staring down at my leg beneath his hand, his grip painful on my thigh and my wrists.

  “Max, it isn’t—”

  “Stop talking, Addison.” He doesn’t look up, and instead, he rotates his hand, pulling on my thigh, trying to force it open, away from my other leg. “Uncross your legs.”

  My chest tightens, and I try to pull my hands from his grip. He doesn’t let go.

  I glance at Dante, and at that moment, Max’s eyes find mine.

  He smiles. “Uncross your legs, or I’ll break his.”

  I shake my head, inhale deeply, breathe in the beachy scent of Max, and something that smells like tobacco. “No,” I tell him. My voice is rough, little more than a whisper, but it’s all I have.

  He slaps me.

  For the first time, he hits me.

  My head spins to the side, hot pain along my cheek. It’s enough to startle me into limpness, and as soon as his hand leaves my face, he uncrosses my thighs with his hand. But I move fast after that, scrambling away from him, pressing against the wall beside my bed as I escape his grasp.

  My hands are balled into fists at my side, planted knuckle down into the mattress, but they start to s
hake.

  “No,” I whisper, fear coursing through my veins, and icy numbness replacing the sensation of contentment I’d had just moments earlier.

  He stands at the end of the bed, his hands planted along the mattress, nostrils flaring with every breath. The only visible sign of his anger.

  “Dante,” he says, while still looking at me. “Get your fucking pants on.”

  I watch Dante start to move, eyes on the floor where his pants are crumpled up in a heap, Max’s eyes still on mine. But just as I shift my gaze, see the bodyguard put one leg in his pants, Max sighs and says, “No, never mind.”

  Dante looks up, hands still gripping the waist of his pants, and when I look to Max, I find him staring at me.

  “I want her to see your bones piercing through your skin. I think that’s a far more effective lesson than just hearing them snap.”

  I can tell she didn’t love her time here.

  The soundproof room is nothing but cement floors and empty, grey walls. There is no light, no windows, and save for chains affixed to the wall, no décor of any kind.

  Until about ten minutes ago, when Mamie put a projector in the room, unbeknownst to either traitorous piece of shit I accompanied up here.

  When I nod toward Addison to enter after Dante, she wraps her arms around herself and trembles.

  Biting her lip, she glances into the room where Dante has already disappeared, and then her big green eyes go to the gun in my hand.

  “Max,” she says carefully, as if I’m a man that can be reasoned with, “you don’t want to do this.” As if she has any idea what I want to do.

  Two weeks she’s spent in my home, and she doesn’t know me at all.

  I offer her a small smile, lifting the nine millimeter, pointed toward the ceiling, so her eyes come to mine. “Get in, or I’ll drag you in.”

  She swallows, looking down at her bare feet. Her pants are on, which is a stark contrast from how I caught her with Dante, and I have the sudden urge to rip them off and finish what he better not have started.

  But I don’t, because she isn’t worth it. And the past five days I’ve been reminded of exactly why.