Collateral obsession, p.34
Collateral Obsession, page 34
“You think that would fit me?”
A smirk curves his lips, sharp and predatory, and his eyes flare with something deliciously dangerous. My mouth goes dry, and I have to swallow, a conscious effort against the sinfulness radiating from him.
“Yes. It will match your hair and eyes perfectly,” he replies evenly.
I study him for a long beat, challenge sparkling in my gaze. His hand finds mine, guiding me toward the fitting room. I bite back a giggle that threatens to escape, the thrill of anticipation mingling with the heat of him beside me.
I’ve never felt like this. Every moment with Dante is like being high on the most potent drug I’ve ever known—one that spreads through my veins, clouding my mind in the most exquisite way. I feel light with him, untethered, like the impossible suddenly becomes possible.
Like, no matter how battered or broken I am, I can come back to him at the end of the day, and he will understand. He will tend to me, wipe the blood from my wounds, and stitch me back together.
We move toward the fitting room, and Dante steps aside, letting me go in first. I glide inside, eyes locking onto the giant mirror that dominates the wall, reflecting both of us. He follows, his hand gently gripping the curtain, pulling it closed with deliberate slowness.
I study the dress, taking a moment to analyze every fold, every glimmer, wondering how it will contour to my body.
Dante’s hand finds my shoulders, steady and warm, and he slowly slides my flower bomber jacket down. A shiver snakes down my spine, goosebumps rising like a tide across my skin, as his fingers brush against the buttons of my silk shirt.
He remains silent, and that silence sharpens every nerve ending. I don’t know what he intends, but the uncertainty ignites a light, buzzing heat under my skin.
I let him help remove the rest of my clothes, and a rush of awareness strikes me as the breeze skims over my bare skin.
I am exposed, completely, under his ravenous gaze.
Deliberately, he drags his tongue across his lips, and I suck in a sharp breath. One hand slides behind me, unclipping my bra, and my mouth falls open as the fabric slips free, letting my breasts bounce naturally.
“You don’t need a bra with this dress,” he murmurs, his voice taut and low, like a string pulled tight.
Before my mind can fully process it, he kneels. My eyebrows shoot up as a folded piece of fabric emerges from his pocket. He unfolds it, one hand brushing my leg softly, sending a ripple of pleasure through me. Air is stolen from my lungs, my energy siphoned by his simple touch as I close my eyes.
It will end me someday, I know it.
I lift my leg slightly, and he guides the white lace strap to my upper thigh. A question rises in my mind, but before I can voice it, he retrieves a small knife from his pocket, tucking it carefully into the strap. Every movement leaves me raw, exposed, tethered to him in a way that terrifies and enthralls me all at once.
His touch feels electric, like a live wire skimming across my skin, and my leg twitches at the brush of his fingertips. Then—just as suddenly as it came—the warmth disappears. The absence strikes me like a blow—a cold, hollow ache rushing through me so fast it leaves me unsteady.
“Yours is a bit overused, don’t you think?” he murmurs as he gets up and moves a hand to my face. His fingers tuck a fallen golden strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that contradicts the fire in his eyes.
He leans closer, and his scent rises around me, fresh and intoxicating. It slips into my lungs, fogging my thoughts, pulling me deeper into his gravity. His other hand drops to the knife in my lace strap, tapping the hilt lightly.
“I want to look at it,” I whisper, the words barely forming through the haze he drapes over me.
He studies me for a long moment before sliding the knife from the strap and lifting it to my eye level. I tilt my head, drinking it in. A black knife, its blade sleek and sharp, with a flush of pastel pink cutting through the center of the handle. The steel catches the lamp’s bright light, scattering it across our reflections.
Liquid heat unfurls in my lower stomach as the truth sinks in. He bought this for me. He simply saw the state of my old blade and decided I deserved better.
Dante must sense the storm inside me, because he moves the tip of the knife to my lips, his breath skimming my cheek as he whispers, “You deserve nice things, Estella.”
Slowly, he drags the blade lower, and I tilt my chin, offering myself to the moment. The sharp tip kisses my skin, slicing through it, a thin line of fire blooming across my mouth.
His gaze snaps to the cut the moment blood rises. He leans in with aching precision, catching the first drop with his mouth before it can fall. His tongue traces the line of blood to the corner of my lip, and I gasp, pressing closer. My nipples skim the fabric of his shirt, tightening at the friction, and a low moan rumbles from his chest.
He takes my lower lip into his mouth, sucking the blood from it with hungry tenderness, and I arch into him, offering more without a second thought.
Dante pulls back for a heartbeat, the bloody tip of the blade brushing against his lips before he drags it across his skin, smearing my blood like paint, and then presses his mouth to mine. The taste is coppery, sharp, and so fucking intoxicating, mingling with the faintly sweet remnants of ice cream on my tongue as we drink from each other like predators.
His hand slips the knife back into the lace strap, and then rises, fingers weaving through my hair with deliberate force. He seizes a handful of my golden strands, pulling my face into his as he devours me. The tang of blood, the sweetness of ice cream, the heat of his mouth—everything blends into a feverish cocktail that makes me shiver against him.
With a sharp smack, he pulls back, and his hands grip the dress from the hanger, unfolding it with a dangerous elegance. “Turn around,” he commands, his voice low and edged with a promise of something untamed.
My gaze flickers downward, catching sight of him. The sheer hardness of him makes me smile wickedly, and a rush of power swells inside me. I turn, eyes locking on our reflection, heart hammering at the sight of us mirrored together.
Dante lowers, and I lift one leg, letting him guide me into the dress. His hot breath fans across my skin as he presses his mouth against my ass in a feather-light kiss, and I feel it deep in my bones. Then, he moves upward, leaving a trail of soft kisses along my lower back, up my spine, until finally, the back of my neck.
His hands manipulate the fabric, wrapping it snugly around me, before reaching down to pull the zipper up. My eyes follow his movements in the mirror as he carefully shapes me into the dress, lifting and guiding my breasts until they sit perfectly.
Once the dress is fully on, I take it in. The bodice is corset-like, structured to cinch my waist and sculpt my silhouette. Tiny rhinestones catch the light, shimmering with every subtle movement, scattering prismatic sparks across the room.
Blood flushes my cheeks, a deep red that rivals the soft pink of the dress. I glance at Dante in the mirror, the raw intensity in his eyes igniting a wildfire in my core. Heat coils low in my stomach, flaring with each second, as the reflection of us holds me captive.
I don’t think I’ve ever worn a dress like this in my life, and I’ve worn many. But this one… this one feels different. It looks sophisticated and elegant, soft in all the right ways, yet it sharpens the danger in my eyes, drawing it out as if the fabric itself knows what I am. It’s like the dress mirrors the balance inside me—beauty and threat, silk wrapped around a blade.
Dante’s eyes trace every inch of me, slow and reverent, as if he’s committing my shape to memory. His gaze never skips, never flickers away, not even for a breath. When his tongue slips out to wet his lips, the flame in his dark eyes flares hotter, brighter, and hungrier than the one erupting inside me.
I swallow hard, something tight and strange unfurling in my chest. The fitting room is enormous, but it feels like the walls are inching inward, pressing in, squeezing what remains of my composure. The space shrinks around us, trapping heat, trapping breath, trapping me.
My bottom lip catches between my teeth as I shift my weight, a bead of sweat breaking across my forehead. The taste of sweet, burning ash lingers at the back of my tongue, the residue of his mouth still haunting me.
His eyes burn with carnal desire as his hand wraps around my waist, warm and possessive. He turns me gently, and it’s only then I realize how weak my legs have become. He’s peeled away every one of my defenses, stripped me down to nerve endings and instinct, and now I feel like a puppet with my strings dancing in his hands.
“You are beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low and soft, but sharp enough to cut.
The compliment strikes me like a spark to gasoline, sending heat spiraling through me so fast I feel it in my toes. Only he can do this—make me feel exposed and fragile, while simultaneously making me feel like I’m the center of the universe. Like I’m rare, irreplaceable. Like I’m a goddess carved from blood and starlight, and he’d raze continents just for the privilege of kneeling at my feet.
“I know that,” I manage to squeak, injecting a thin thread of sarcasm to hide how breathless I actually am.
My knees nearly give out right here as a smirk tugs at his lips. His hands on my waist are the only things keeping me upright—the only anchor I have left.
“Now pull it up,” he orders, his voice roughened by desire.
I swallow again before obeying. My trembling hands gather the delicate fabric and bunch it upward, baring the apex of my thighs with painstaking slowness.
Dante lowers to his knees again, and my breathing turns ragged. His palms tap lightly against the sides of my legs—a silent command, another I follow without hesitation. I lift my legs, one by one, setting them on his shoulders, my pulse thundering as the world narrows to just him, me, and the unbearable heat coiling between us.
My throat tightens as his fingers hook under my thong, tugging it down with a deliberate, torturous slowness. The sudden brush of cool air washes over me, and I shiver, acutely aware of just how aroused I am.
He doesn’t break eye contact as he pulls it down halfway, his gaze sliding to my pussy. The muscle in his jaw flexes as he takes in the evidence of my response, the aftermath of his teasing written plainly across my skin. My own breath hitches, caught somewhere between need and anticipation.
Leaning in, he inhales me, and my back arches involuntarily, nipples painfully hard against the silk of the dress. A part of me aches to shed every layer, to let him touch wherever he wants, to be entirely his. But another part savors the beautiful irony of wearing the dress he chose while he devours me.
Without warning, his lips descend, magnetized to my pussy. He presses a soft, deliberate kiss against me, and a shudder races up my spine, a husky moan escaping before I can stop it.
He hums at the sound, his hands gliding up my thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “So soft. So wet,” he murmurs, capturing another taste with his lips, this time from my clit.
A louder moan escapes me, more urgent this time. He lifts his gaze, thick lashes shadowing his dark eyes.
“My, my,” he hums, planting his mouth on my inner thigh, dragging it along, smearing my arousal across my skin. The glistening sheen catches the light, reflecting in his eyes and mine. “You’ll have to be quiet if you want me to eat this pussy… otherwise, we’ll get caught.”
My gaze flicks to the curtain shielding us, a flimsy veil that does little to protect our privacy. If someone hears, there will be consequences—but the threat only fuels me further.
“You wear that blush so nicely,” he comments, drawing my attention back to him. I lift my hand to my heated face, my cheeks burning brighter with embarrassment and desire.
His nostrils flare as he drops his eyes back to my pussy. His tongue spreads across me, warm and consuming, sending a sensation that feels like being enveloped in a thick, heated blanket. My eyes roll back, my mouth parting, a choked whimper lodged in my throat. He groans into me, the vibration crawling across my flesh, sending ripples of pleasure up my spine.
“Dante,” I whisper-beg, caught in the rhythm of him. He drags his tongue up and down, smearing my juices, hard licks pulling at the sensitive lips that ache for him.
His hands on my thighs grow firmer, rougher, squeezing and guiding me. I don’t resist. My own hands weave into his hair, fisting the strands as I grind against him, feeling the heat coiling tighter.
Pressure, friction—it’s everything I crave, and I press him into me, squeezing his head between my thighs exactly like he wants, every shiver and moan a silent promise of how much I need him.
His eyes roll back as he quickens the pace, moving his tongue wildly. He licks me with abandon, teasing, pushing, stretching my lips, pressing into them before burying his face into my pussy. Every flick, every drag, sets my nerve endings alight, sparks scattering through me like fire across dry grass.
I tighten my grip on his hair, forcing him impossibly closer, molding him to my body. His mouth devours me—slow, then rough—playing with the pressure and the pace, exploring every inch, tasting me as if he’s trying to memorize the flavor of my desire. I feel the hard pressure of his face against me, each push curling deeper into my core.
When he shifts, trying to change the angle, I ease the pressure with my thighs, guiding him exactly where I want him. His bristled beard brushes against my wet flesh, and then his lips clamp around my clit. Suction pulls and drags, while his tongue slaps lightly against the sensitive bud, coaxing out muffled moans and desperate, stifled sounds that escape me against my will.
My body convulses, twitching uncontrollably under him. My eyes roll upward, back arching as it softly thuds against the mirror, my body chasing the rising tide of sensation.
He senses my approach, and the suction grows, harder, more insistent. My mind unravels, untethered from my body, swallowed entirely by the storm of lust consuming me.
Shivers climb my spine, unstoppable, radiating from every inch of contact where his lips and tongue lap against me. Shame and abandon intertwine as I pick up the pace, grinding harder, pressing him into me with need.
I lose myself completely—my name, my consciousness, the remnants of my goddamn sanity—everything surrendered to the coil of heat in my stomach, tightening painfully and so fucking exquisitely.
Euphoria crashes over me, devouring every sense. The world shrinks to his lips, his tongue, and my own writhing body. It feels like a descent into hell, every nerve, every breath, every inch of me consumed by the fire of him.
I climb so high that dizziness blooms in my skull, a dull ache consuming me as I ride the relentless waves, grinding roughly against his face. His hold on my thighs tightens, anchoring me, forcing me closer as if no amount could ever satisfy the hunger he inspires.
Weak, ragged gasps tumble from my chest as my world tilts, turning upside down, every certainty I once clung to dissolving into question marks.
He continues to roughly lap at my throbbing pussy until I’m forced to beg him to stop. Convulsions wrack me, each one tearing through me like a fish flung from the sea onto a dry, burning shore, leaving me trembling and raw.
Then, he rips his mouth away, and the absence of heat sends an icy shiver up my spine. I shift instinctively, chasing the burning tingles before he rises and slams his lips to mine. I’m delirious, lost in the dizzying collision of pleasure when his tongue dives into my mouth—demanding, claiming, devouring.
A unique, electric taste blooms on my tongue, fire and electricity sparking between us as our lips lock. It’s like volcanic eruptions tearing through the earth, with energy pulsing in colossal waves.
Time fractures. The world contracts to the heat of our connection, the press of our bodies, the bruising kiss that leaves us gasping and trembling. I know I’ll leave this fitting room disheveled, cheeks burning, breath stuttering, the remnants of our passion still vibrating through my skin.
Dante pulls back, and I catch him reaching into his pocket. My eyes trace the movement as he withdraws a delicate pink spider lily. Surprise flutters weakly across my face, and I’m too spent, too undone to even try to understand anything.
“Where…” I start, my words faltering, failing to form a coherent question.
Before I can finish, he spins the flower between his fingers and tucks it carefully behind my ear. The spidery petals brush lightly against my skin, teasing the sensitive shell of my ear, and a small smile fights to surface.
“While you were busy shuffling through clothes,” he explains, his voice low and airy, carrying that familiar heat.
“I told you… The best is what you deserve. And I’ll move heaven and earth to give it to you.”
Austria, Vienna
My nerves are sparking like live wires. Anxiety leaks out of me in hot, frantic pulses, and the damn hood suffocates me, clinging to my head like a noose. I drag a hand across my face, pushing the loose strands of hair back into the fabric, trying to look less like I’m about to combust.
“Mein Herr, möchten Sie sonst noch etwas? Sir, would you like anything else?”
My head snaps to the side. A waitress stands beside me, worry tightening her features. Her gaze flicks to my untouched coffee—the full, cooling cup I haven’t so much as breathed on—and she probably thinks I’m displeased, ready to complain.
“Nein, mir geht es gut. No, I’m fine,” I say quietly, forcing a smile I barely feel. “Danke trotzdem. Thanks though.”
“Nun, falls Sie sonst noch etwas benötigen… Well, if you need anything else…” Her voice trails off as she scribbles something on her notepad with a pen. Then she tears the paper free and places it on my table. My eyes drop to it—numbers, hastily written, underlined once. “Fragen Sie ruhig. Feel free to ask.”
She turns, tossing a final glance over her shoulder before walking away. It takes my anxiety-fogged brain a full second to understand.
She just gave me her number.
