LET'S SEE HOW YOU'D HOLD UP

CHAPTER SIX

Dante walks toward me slowly, deliberately, until he's only inches away.

I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Can smell that intoxicating mix of expensive cologne and something wild that makes my wolf stir restlessly.

I refuse to back away. Refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me retreat.

"You're not as fierce as you appear to be," he says quietly, his dark eyes scanning my face.

The tears I was fighting threaten to spill again, but I blink them back hard.

"I'm stronger than I look," I blurt out, lifting my chin defiantly.

It's a weak comeback and we both know it. But it's all I have right now.

He smirks, and the expression is cold. Cruel.

"Let's see how you hold up then," he says softly.

His hand slides into his pocket.

My eyes widen. "Don't. Dante, don't..."

"Why shouldn't I?" His fingers close around the remote. "You said you were stronger than you look. Why don't we test your hypothesis?"

"Sto..."

He presses the button.

The vibration hits me without warning, and I gasp, stumbling backward until my hands grip the marble sink behind me. The only thing keeping me upright.

The sensation is immediate and overwhelming. The device presses directly against my most sensitive spot, vibrating with relentless intensity.

My thighs clench together instinctively, trying to either increase or decrease the pressure, I don't even know which.

"Ahh..." The moan escapes before I can stop it.

My knuckles go white against the sink. Sweat beads at my hairline, my temples. My breathing comes in short, desperate gasps.

Dante watches me with dark fascination. That cruel smirk deepens as he observes every reaction, the way my body trembles, the flush spreading across my chest and neck, how my eyes struggle to stay open.

He's enjoying this.

Enjoying watching me fall apart.

The vibrations continue, and I can't stay still. My hips shift involuntarily, seeking relief that doesn't exist.

The pleasure builds in waves, each one cresting higher than the last, threatening to pull me under.

"Please," I gasp out. "Please stop..."

"You look beautiful like this," he murmurs, ignoring my plea. "All that fight draining out of you. All that defiance melting away."

Heat pools low in my belly, spreading through my limbs like liquid fire. My legs shake. The bathroom is spinning slightly, or maybe that's just me losing my grip on reality.

"I bet you're wet," he says shamelessly, his voice dropping to something darker. Hungrier. "I bet if I put a finger inside you right now, you'd be dripping."

I want to tell him to go to hell. Want to spit in his face. Want to tell him exactly what I think of him and his games.

But if I open my mouth to speak, I'll moan again. And I've already given him too much.

So I just glare at him through watering eyes, gripping the sink so hard my hands ache.

He takes a step closer. Then another. Until he's right behind me, his chest almost touching my back.

I can see both of us in the mirror now. Me, flushed, trembling, barely holding on. Him, perfectly composed, completely in control, dark satisfaction written across his features.

His hands come up to rest on my shoulders. Large. Warm. Heavy.

Then he turns me around.

My back presses against his chest. His body is solid as a wall behind me, trapping me between him and the sink. One of his arms wraps across my stomach, holding me in place.

I try to push him away. My hands come up weakly, pressing against his forearm.

It's like trying to move granite.

He leans down, and I feel his breath against my neck.

Then he inhales.

Slowly. Deliberately. Drawing my scent deep into his lungs like he's savoring it.

A shiver runs through my entire body. Not from fear. From something infinitely more dangerous.

"I own you, Elena," he whispers against my skin, his lips barely brushing the sensitive spot below my ear. "Every part of you belongs to me. I own your desires. Your pleasure. Your pain."

His other hand comes up to rest on my hip, fingers splaying possessively.

"I choose when I want to see you like this," he continues, his voice a dark caress. "Falling apart. Desperate. Aching. And I choose when I don't. I control everything you feel."

The vibrations intensify.

"Dante..." His name tears out of me, half plea, half moan.

"That's right," he murmurs. "Say my name. Remember who makes you feel this way."

Then I feel it.

The unmistakable hardness pressing against my lower back. Thick. Insistent. Proof that he's not as unaffected as he pretends to be.

He shifts his hips, pressing himself more firmly against me, and the knowledge that he's aroused, that he wants me even while he's tormenting me, sends another jolt of heat through my system.

I lose whatever fragile control I had left.

"Ahhh..." The moan is shameless. Desperate. I don't even recognize my own voice.

My head falls back against his shoulder. My body arches involuntarily, pressing closer to him. Seeking something. Anything.

I hate him. I hate him.

So why does my body burn for his touch? Why am I leaning into him instead of fighting?

Why does the feeling of his hardness against me make everything worse and better at the same time?

His hand moves from my hip to my throat. Not squeezing. Just resting there. A reminder of his power. His control.

He turns my head toward him, forcing me to meet his eyes in the mirror.

Those dark, amber flecked eyes that see everything. Every weakness. Every shameful desire I'm trying to hide.

He leans closer, his lips right against my ear, and his next words are barely a whisper. But they cut like knives.

"The moment you piss me off, Elena, I'll make sure I ruin your body in ways you can't imagine." His hand tightens slightly on my throat. "And I won't enter you. I'll keep you right on the edge. Sex-starved. Aching. Begging. You'll want me so badly you won't be able to think straight, but I won't give you what you need."

My breath catches.