And then he straightened and walked out, leaving her in her bed, with a smile on her face and a hope in her heart.
Days became weeks.
He came to see her five times those first few weeks. She wrapped them away in her memories.
She saw more of him on the internet, sometimes alone, sometimes with a woman. She ignored it as he asked.
It chipped away little pieces of her.
Weeks became months.
She finished school with accelerated classes, started her master’s degree, began her therapy training. Made friends with books, talked to Lulu, continued with her own therapy. Embraced her demons in the morning, grew into herself in the afternoon, found pleasure in her body at night.
He came many times.
He left every time.
Chip, chip, chip.
Months became years.
She celebrated her twenty-second birthday with him.
She finished her accelerated Master’s, got on her Doctorate, and studied her ass off. She spoke to her mother every other day, kept in touch with Vin and Nerea, and went to Tristan’s penthouse occasionally.
He started spending a few days at a time with her, risking everything for one time.
He had to force himself to leave every damn time, saving everything for next time.
Chip, chip, chip.
Years became six.
With her professional evolution and personal therapy, twenty-five knocked on her door with blooming confidence. She finished her doctorate, started her business, got new clients, moved into an apartment she bought herself. She went out on dates, covered her scars, and wore her heels, and came home alone.
Some days, she felt she was weak for waiting for him. Other days, she felt she was strong for waiting for him. The coin kept flipping, the only constant her deepening love for him and his maddening love for her.
He rose in the ranks, became a true heir to the throne, and Amara felt proud.
He never touched another woman, his heart and body and soul all hers, and Amara felt loved.
He loved coming to her, holding her for long minutes like his arms had been famished.
He hated leaving her, pressing his forehead to hers as her eyes burned.
They hid in the shadows.
Chip, chip, chip.
Six years became seven.
They became the roots of a tree, buried deep underground, out of sight, twined together, entangled together, strengthening each other, weakening each other, taking all the love like nourishment, storing it in secret places, all the while waiting for the tree that had been violently cut to sprout leaves again.
It took time for forests to grow, kingdoms to build, and empires to exist. Where one was being broken, another was being molded to take its place.
They were lovers and friends, strangers and acquaintances, all those things, none of those things.
They just were.
Waiting.
Chip, chip, chip.
Her exile never ended.
They never truly began.
But empires took more time to break than people, and slowly it cracked.
(Present Day)
“I’ll follow you
and make a heaven out of hell,
and I’ll die by your hand, which I love so well.”
William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
She knew something was wrong the moment she saw him at her door in the middle of the day. He never came to her during the day.
“Dante-” his mouth was on hers before she could utter more, the urgency in his kiss infusing her blood, the taste of him after weeks, weeks of not seeing him, aphrodisiac in her veins. She hadn’t seen him since the night they had the heated falling out over her telling Morana the truth about Tristan. He had come to her that night, both their tempers high, and fucked her all night through in anger that had blown into exhaustion.
He pushed her into her new apartment – the one she’d bought herself three months ago – pushing the door close with his foot, turning her to press her against it, hard. Her balance tottered in her heels – heels she’d come to love because of how confident and powerful they made her feel, but also because every time she put one on, it reminded her of that first time.
Before she could catch a breath, he was on his knees, her legs over his broad shoulders, her panties a scrap of fabric in his hands, ripped and discarded, and his mouth was between her legs.
A man who ate his girl out solely for his pleasure was a different breed of dangerous, and Dante Maroni was the most dangerous of all. In all the years they had been doing this, Amara had lost count of how many times she’d woken up with his mouth between her thighs, how many times he’d bent her over just to taste her, how many times he’d pushed her against the wall to make out with her pussy. He did it for no other reason than he loved it, and he’d made her addicted to his skilled mouth, ravishing her tryst after tryst, orgasm after orgasm, hour after hour, just because he could.
Her pussy knew him, recognized him, and drenched for him within seconds. Amara pushed her head back against the wall, his hands the only things holding her upright, and saw Lulu watching them curiously from the doorway.
A strangled laugh escaped her, ending on a moan as he pushed his tongue inside her, his hand wrapping around her thigh to rub her clit. Fuck, he was good. So, so good.
Amara bit her lip, grinding against his mouth, chasing her pleasure, unashamed of her body’s desire after so long with him. Some days, she still felt a twinge of guilt for never having told him the extent of her assault, or how it still affected her, how she still woke some nights drenched in sweat, a heartbeat away from screaming, and how Lulu – her sweet, loving Lulu who had grown up to her full furry body – always climbed on her chest and started purring like a motor to calm her down, her big green eyes on Amara.
“Lulu is watching us,” she told him, tugging at his hair.
“Let her watch,” he growled, looking up at her, the sight of him on his knees before her making her melt. “Let her watch how I’m going to fuck her mom hard against the door.”
Oh my.
With that, he straightened to his full height, having grown a few inches taller somehow, broader, more filled out, still towering over her in her heels. Dante Maroni as a boy had been her unrequited; Dante Maroni as a man was her undoing.
His hands went under her ass as she unzipped his pants, taking out his hard, familiar length, feeling the heavy weight throb in her palm. He lifted her easily, lined himself up against her, and thrust home.
Home.
He felt like home.
Amara felt her eyes burn and closed them, her body shuddering with the pleasure of connecting with him, her heart weeping knowing he would leave after. She shouldn’t keep doing this. She couldn’t stop doing this.
His mouth took hers, her taste on his lips making her clench around his cock, the kiss wet, sloppy, perfect. He pulled out an inch before pistoning his cock in, her walls fluttering around him in greeting, gripping him tight, keeping him.
“Missed you,” he pressed his forehead into hers, his eyes dark and heavy on hers. “I missed you so fucking much, dirty girl.”
Amara felt a lump in her throat. “I missed you too,” she whispered, and his eyes roved over her face, as though memorizing her, trying to trace if anything had changed since the last time he’d seen her. The last time they’d been in the same space, tempers had been high and she’d called him a coward in her frustration of being stuck in the same loop with him because he either wasn’t moving them forward or wasn’t telling her. They hadn’t talked much that night.