He Let Her Ride Him Down

DANTE'S PERSPECTIVE

She fucking owned me.

And the worst part?

I let her.

I didn’t stop her when she lead me down on that narrow bed.

Didn’t snarl.

Didn’t flip her over and drive myself in the way I always did.

I just watched her.

Watched the way she unzipped her pants, also mine, and crawled on top of me, her thighs straddling my hips, warm and trembling.

I felt the heat of her pussy press right against me.

Through my restraint.

She grinded once, slow, firm.

And I twitched so hard I almost came undone like a fucking teenager.

Her palms pressed on my chest underneath my shirt, soft fingers tracing the scars she never asked about.

Her eyes never left mine, not even when she slid her hand between us, unfastened me, wrapped her fingers around me.

I hissed.

She smiled.

And then she sank down on me, slow, deliberate, inch by inch until she took all of me inside her tight, aching pussy.

God.

She clenched around me like she was meant to keep me.

My cock throbbed inside her, and I couldn’t breathe.

Not from lust.

From the way she moved.

She rolled her hips in circles, slow at first, then deeper.

Dragging me in, squeezing, pulsing with every grind that met the base.

Her soft moan brushed against my throat when she leaned in to kiss me, open-mouthed, biting, claiming.

Her breasts grazed my chest, nipples hard against me.

I let her.

Because every time she rocked her hips and her pussy swallowed me whole, she erased everything else.

Her rhythm was maddening, measured, intimate, like she was memorizing how I felt inside her.

Every time she lifted, I felt her drag along every inch of me.

And every time she dropped back down, she gasped like it was the first time again.

She whispered my name, breathy, reverent.

Not begging.

Declaring.

Like I belonged to her.

And fuck me, I did.

Helpless, panting, grinding up into her like a man lost in a fever.

Spilling everything into her warmth, buried deep, marking her from the inside out.

Her inner thighs clamped tighter as she started to tremble.

I felt her fluttering around me, soaking me, clenching as she pushed herself over the edge.

I was shaking.

Not from rage.

Not from power.

From her.

From whatever the hell she just did to me.

She curled up beside me after, like nothing happened.

Grabbed a book.

Read.

Like she didn’t just ride me into fucking submission.

I should’ve dragged her back down.

Bit her shoulder.

Reminded her who I was.

But I didn’t.

Because I wanted it again.

The feel of her wrapped around my cock, tight and slick and goddamn divine.

The way her body trembled as she came undone, the way she didn’t hide it.

I wanted more.

I wanted her.

Every soft inch. Every dark smile. Every unspoken thing in her eyes.

And I’d let her.

Again.

And again.

Until I forget who I was before her.

Because I think she already knows,

I’m not coming back from this.

From her.

From being hers.

~~~~~~~

CATALINA'S PERSPECTIVE

I stayed.

Used his chest like a pillow. Let my breath mark his skin.

He didn’t push me away.

That was new.

No retreat. No command. No barked order to leave.

Just silence.

I took it.

Laid there longer than I should.

Let my fingers rest against his stomach. Not soft. Not comforting. Just there.

I don’t get this part. Not in this house.

No one holds me after.

He never has.

But he did now.

And I took my time.

Because I knew it wouldn’t happen again.

Except - he didn’t shove me off.

He said he’d take me home.

Him.

Not a driver. Not a guard.

Dante.

He opened the door himself. Told me to get in. Like we were something. Like he wasn’t pretending anymore.

Three years.

And this was the first time we sat side by side without cameras, without blood on his collar, without anyone to impress.

His car.

His silence.

And me.

I didn’t speak. Didn’t thank him.

Just sat with my knees together and my hands in my lap like the good wife I’m supposed to be.

But I watched him.

From the corner of my eye.

The way his jaw clenched. The way his fingers tapped the wheel like he wanted to break it.

He didn’t look at me. Not once.

But he didn’t stop me from being there either.

That was enough.

So I leaned my head against the glass.

Not for sleep.

Not for peace.

For control.

Because if I looked at him, if I let myself feel the way his warmth still lingered between my legs, I’d reach for him again.

And I won’t.

Not yet.

Let him wonder. Let him burn.

Because I already marked him.

He just doesn’t know how deep.

Yet.