by RuNyx .
And then another sound penetrated her lust induced daze.
A knock.
Fuck.
Her eyes opened, flying towards the door as he stilled, turning his neck towards the door as well, his erection completely still inside her for the first time, throbbing like an electric wire with a pulse. Her walls clenched tightly around him as she felt him completely filling her more than she'd ever been filled, so, so tight a fit she felt like a custom made sheath around his blade.
The knock came again, making her blink, making her realize where she was – in a restaurant full of people with weapons, men of the mob, and her father, his enemies, just a door outside.
Someone actually stood a few feet away, just separated from them by a thin wooden door. And she sat there on a counter, fucked up, with Tristan Caine throbbing inside her.
Holy expletives.
"Ms. Vitalio?" a man's voice penetrated her consciousness, making her eyes widen slightly on the door. "Your father has asked you to come out."
Oh lord.
She was close.
So close.
The door was close too.
Ah…
She saw Tristan Caine turn his face back towards her, his face blank, his eyebrows raised. Nobody seeing him would believe he was standing in a restroom, buried balls deep inside her, getting harder by the moment. What did the man seriously eat?
Her eyes locked with his, and he tilted his head to the door, telling her to answer silently.
She took a deep breath, an action that caused her inner walls to spasm around him, shooting heat up her spine.
And Tristan Caine pulled out suddenly, thrusting in just as hard.
Holy…!
Her mouth opened instinctively to cry out loud at the suddenness of the movement, and his other hand clapped over her mouth, muffling the sound. Her eyes widened on his, stunned.
Had he just covered her mouth? Actually covered her mouth?
Her father's man was right outside the door, waiting. Right outside the door. Was this man insane?
As though in answer, he snapped his hips into her sharply, the angle hitting a spot inside her that made her eyes roll back into her head even as sounds tried to escape her, muffled against his large hand. His pace increased suddenly, becoming more rapid than it had been, becoming faster than she'd thought a man could possibly ever move, becoming so quick he was in and out of her before she could even breathe.
If she'd been incoherent before, she was barely lucid now. The friction, the pressure of his hips pistoning into hers, the sheer thrill of being fucked while her father's man stood outside the door, her mouth covered and neck held made heat singe through her.
Her hands were moving away from the granite counter and holding on to his shoulders before she could stop herself, her nails digging into his hard, hard muscles as his hand on her neck held her weight, like it had in the penthouse, the sheer strength in his body making her try to flex her hips and match his pace. But she couldn't. He moved so fast, so quick, she was just pinned to the spot, letting him move in and out and in and out of her without doing anything except breathe, her walls clenching and unclenching at a pace that couldn't match his ardent hips.
It was basic, primitive, carnal.
It was heated, wild, insane.
But it was making her scream against his hand and see stars behind her closed eyelids.
Her nipples hurt, scraping against her the fabric of the dress, needing touch so badly. She wanted to grab his hands and push them on her breasts. She wanted to pull her dress down, pull his head down and make him suck her aching nipples. She wanted to feel the lash on his tongue against her hungry breasts, feel the rasp of his tongue, feel the wetness of his mouth as his hips moved into hers like a machine.
But she couldn't. She dug her fingers into his flesh.
God, she hated him. But he was good at this. Very good.
The knock came again.
Awareness slithered down her spine even as she curved it, her breasts rising and falling rapidly as a bead of sweat rolled down her cleavage, her hands tightening on his shoulders, his flexing on her neck.
And then, he suddenly bent his knees, thrusting upwards, and her mind blanked. Blanked, feeling the force of that thrust down to her bones. Her teeth clenched, the coiled heat in her belly winding tighter and tighter and tighter. He speared her again and again, and her toes singed with the sudden roar of heat, traveling up and up her legs and spine to where he held her neck, starting from where he drilled and drilled and ending where his hand rested, the coil curling and curling and curling even as the heat spread through her limbs.
And suddenly, with one more thrust, her body locked, everything exploding, behind her eyelids in pure, sheer black, inside her body with a consuming fire she'd never felt, outside her skin in a clenching of muscles as her neck tilted back, her hips lifting off the counter from the sheer power of her orgasm, her mouth opening in a silent scream for a split second under his palm. His hips kept moving, in and out and in and out, hitting that spot again and again and again.
It was too much. She tried to shake her head, her body screaming in ecstasy, but his hands didn't let her move.
He kept moving.
She kept exploding.
And she bit down on his hand before she realized it, trying to find some purchase of the intense currents of pleasure zapping all her senses, making her wail and whine and whimper in her throat as she bit and bit and bit on his hand, drawing blood.
The knock came again.
The taste of copper and rust filled her mouth. He didn't remove his hand. She didn't remove her teeth.
And he thrust in, one last time, before stilling, expanding inside her before flexing his hips in reflex, exploding into his own orgasm, her walls quivering around him in stunned aftershocks. His own small, shallow thrusts spurred more from them, milking her as she milked him for all he was worth, his hand tight on her neck, a low rumbling sound the only sound from him. His breaths were rapid, quick, and shallow like his thrusts, her own matching his.
She was done. So done.
She couldn't feel her limbs. Couldn't feel her face. Couldn't even feel her teeth.
She'd never felt this.
Her eyes remained closed, her breaths rapidly moving through her, feeling him soften inside her slowly.
"Morana?" her father's voice invaded her fried brain.
As did the ice.
"Stop sulking like a child and come outside," her father ordered from the other side of the door. "You've been in there very long."
Morana grit her teeth as Tristan Caine pulled out of her, the motion almost making her want to moan. He removed his hands from her, his face towards the door as he disposed the condom and tucked himself in his trousers again, his back to her. Morana sat on the counter for a second, gathering her wits, before sliding down. Her legs trembled in her heels. Her knees were weak, her inner thighs burning and the center sore, bruised, used. Truly fucked.
She straightened herself, turning towards the mirror, and barely contained a gasp. Not a single hair was out of place on her. No handprints around her neck. Except for her bunched dress and flushed skin, there was no sign at all that she'd been involved in anything physical, not even a sprint let alone sex.
Blinking her shining, blown up eyes, she straightened her dress, pressing on the creases till it fell over her body like it was supposed to, like it had been the entire night. She took a deep breath, letting her skin settle slightly until just a slight shiver down her exposed spine was any indication of disquiet.
She became aware of him a second after she was put together, her eyes flying up to his in the mirror, taking him in. Like her, there was nothing on him indicative of what he'd been doing. She swallowed. And tasted the residual copper and rust.
Her eyes drifted to the hand where she had bitten him, shock filling her system as she realized it was the same hand he had cut with her knife at her house. The hand had been healing. Her teeth had
done some damage.
She bit back the automatic apology that came to her lips, and pressed them together, steeling her spine.
"Ms. Vitalio," the goon’s voice came loudly. "Your father demands you to return to the table."
Yeah, well. He could stick it up his ass.
She didn't reply but turned around to face Tristan Caine, deliberately keeping her face blank.
"Not as experienced as you wanted me to believe, Ms. Vitalio," he said quietly, so quietly she barely heard him.
But she did. And the rage that had disappeared after the explosion returned, not just at him, but herself. She'd let him toss her on a restroom counter, for goodness' sake. A restroom counter. She'd let him take her hard and fast and quick. She'd let him cover her mouth and muffle her sounds while her father's man had been right outside the door, in a place where her father had been dining along with so many enemies. She'd let him make her come so hard her teeth had clenched.
And she'd enjoyed it. She'd wanted it. Every. Single. Second. Every. Single. Thrust. She'd wanted it, and she'd not wanted him to stop. Had her mouth not been covered, she would have been screaming. Had he not covered her mouth, she would have been crying out for him. And he hadn't even touched her. Their clothes had stayed completely in place. She hadn't wanted to touch him.
Good lord, what had she been thinking?
One time.
Just one time.
This was done. Completely. She wanted to leave. She wanted him gone. She didn't want a single reminder of her own flesh's depravity. This was messed up, more messed up than she'd thought it would be.
Regret and anger burned through her, along with hatred for herself.
And she saw it all mirrored in his gaze in one split second of clarity before he masked it again.
He was hating himself too. He was regretting too. He was angry too.
Good.
The worst part was, even as everything burned in her body, so did desire, as unsated as it had been when she'd walked into the room. What had been the point of it all if she felt no satisfaction whatsoever?
Without a word, she turned towards the door and took her first step.
And almost buckled down, the heaviness between her thighs almost knocking her to her knees. She was sore. Goodness, she was sore. One step and she remembered the fullness of him, the feeling of having him inside her, the sheer bliss. One step.
How the fuck was she supposed to walk out into the restaurant?
The same way she walked into her house every day.
Steeling her spine at the sobering thought, she passed him, the memory of pleasure resonating with every single step, the wetness perpetual around her sore walls, somehow hungry for even more.
His hand caught her arm just as she passed him, and she turned her head sideways, looking up at him, raising her eyebrows silently.
"Break his arm next time," he said quietly, his blue eyes magnificent, the sheer power in them making her heart pound.
His words sank in.
She snatched her arm back, a sneer curling her lips. "Touch me again, and I will break yours."
"Once was more than enough, Ms. Vitalio."
Her hackles rose. "I'll tell that to the notch on my bedpost, Mr. Caine."
Without waiting for his response, she strode towards the door, not giving a fuck about how he would escape the ladies’ room. He had come in; he could go out.
Unlocking the door, she pulled it open, to find two men waiting for her towards the end of the corridor.
Not glancing back where she could feel his eyes on her back, she walked towards the men, her head high. Her stride was steady even as the soreness between her legs throbbed with each step, reminding her again and again of exactly what she had done and let be done to her, reminding her of the man who'd done it, reminding her of the pleasure she hadn't wanted to feel but had, and to what degree. Every single step. Her throbbing core spasmed on air, getting hungrier. She'd just had the most mind-blowing orgasm, and she felt anything but sated. What was wrong with her?
The men started walking behind her, their guns hidden under their jackets, stance alert.
Morana entered the main eating area, her eyes falling to the Outfit table at the other corner, her eyes meeting Dante's. He knew. His gaze told her he knew exactly what she'd been doing, and where his blood brother was. But she saw no judgment, no trepidation, and no pity in his eyes. Just tiredness.
She looked away before she could linger, heading towards her father's table, her face clear of all her emotions and turmoil.
Without looking at anyone, she took her seat rigidly, her lips pursed, her thighs clenching tightly to keep the throb to a minimum. She was aware of her father watching her, and she looked up, challenging his eyes. The creep beside her glared at her.
Her phone vibrated.
She broke the gaze and looked down at it.
Tristan Caine: How many notches does that bedpost have?
Her jaw almost dropped at the audacity of him. How dare he?
She quickly typed a reply, memories – of friction, of heat, of pleasure – flooding her with more and more rage.
Me: All you need to know about my bedpost is simple.
Tristan Caine: And that is?
Me: You'll be on it just once. Been there. Done that.
She waited for his reply. It didn't come.
She felt his gaze on her back, her nape prickling, and deja-vu hit her like a train wreck.
This was exactly where she'd been almost an hour ago. Exactly where she'd been. Same place, same people, same plots.
Except she had changed.
She didn't want to admit it, but she had. Something, very, very tiny, had shifted infinitesimally within the hour, with her acceptance of her desire, her locking of the door, her opening her legs for him. She didn't want to admit it, but it had. And she'd die before she let anyone else know it. Least of all him.
The table broke up finally, people getting up and turning to leave, shaking hands with her father. She stood up as well, standing as tall as she could in her heels, ignoring the ache in her belly and south, one hand holding her clutch and phone, the other beside her hips.
The creeper turned to her, taking her free hand and bringing it to his lips before she could blink. Morana felt her skin crawl, even more than it had earlier when he had been trying to grope her thigh. It was just his lips pressing into the back of her fingers, a gesture so many men had repeated at the end of so many dinners, and while they'd always disgusted her, this felt more intense, more.
She could feel his stare boring into her exposed back, the man who'd fucked her minutes ago a few feet away, the man she hated, while the creeper kissed her hand. His gaze burned on her back, on her neck, on her spine.
'Break his arm next time.'
The stare intensified. She tried to pull her hand back. The man didn't let go.
Her father looked around the room. The stare never left her back. Was he trying to start a war? He needed to look away!
The entire restaurant was on edge, everyone on alert, hands hovering over weapons, tension ratcheting higher and higher as her father's men headed towards the main door.
The creeper finally let go. She picked up a napkin from the table and wiped her hands, insulting him, and her father blatantly.
"I hope we meet again soon," the man told her.
"Sure, if you want another sprain and some broken bones," she said, her words loud enough for people to stiffen.
His gaze lingered. Her body throbbed.
She started walking towards the door with the party, keeping her gaze deliberately averted from the table in the corner, the table from where she could feel his gaze searing her, watching her every move like a panther watched a doe – still, quiet, waiting.
Her phone vibrated in her palm. Turning her eyes away, she peeked at it quietly as the men walked.
She saw the message and everything came rushing through her – the anger, the desire, the hate, the regret �
�� mixing together in a concoction she barely even recognized anymore.
Her breath hitched.
Her body buzzed in memory on his rough hands and thrusting hips, hips she could still feel against hers, blue, blue eyes staring into hers, with the same emotions mirrored back for the split second the mask cracked.
She saw the text, and her stomach dropped, her heart pounding.
Tristan Caine: Apparently, you're not out of my system, Ms. Vitalio.
Her father stopped her before she'd processed it, his dark eyes cold, icy on hers.
Her stomach dropped again, for an entirely different reason.
"What were you doing with Tristan Caine?"
Panic hit.
Her heart stopped.
For a split second.
And then it kick-started with a vengeance, thumping wildly, the ache between her legs throbbing with every mad thud.
Keeping her face clear of all expressions, keeping her body completely still, not showing even the hint of the rampage inside her, aware of her father's shrewd eyes sharp on her for any indication of guilt, Morana raised a quiet brow.
"Who's Tristan Caine?"
Her voice stayed steady; her insides shook.
Before her father could respond, the other exit of the restaurant at the end of the street opened and Morana saw her father's eyes turn to it. Steadying herself, not to make any moves that could give her away, she turned along with him and saw the men of the Outfit walk out the door, towards the other end of the lot where their cars were parked. Four men exited in a file before Dante stepped out, his huge body that was his namesake athletic in his suit. Morana saw him turn and stare at her father.
Her father nodded once, in that polite warning way reserved for enemies who were in his territory and he couldn't do a thing about it.
Dante nodded back, all tiredness from previously gone, in that polite way that gave her father the finger.
Morana resisted the urge to smile at the way it riled her father.
Dante's eyes shifted to her then, for a second, and he nodded to her, in the way she'd always seen him nod at her. Morana didn't nod back, but standing there with the realization that her enemy was more respectful of her than her own father stung.