Dante Maroni was a remarkable man, and she was lucky he was hers.
Her mother left the house after a few hours, telling her she had some moving stuff to oversee at the main house, and Amara stayed behind, needing a few moments alone before she went out. Walking around his house again, she saw the boxes and stuff lined up beside the stairs. Curious, she climbed up, peeking into his almost empty bedroom, before dodging a box and going up higher into his studio.
As she ascended the last steps, the memories in this room hit her. That first kiss on her neck, right against the door, those stolen kisses after they got together, early morning moments of her listening to his audiobook and watching him sculpt. So many memories in this place and the fact that he was leaving it made her a little sad.
She walked into the large room, taking in the big windows and the plethora of sculptures around it, the workbench lit by a beam of sunlight. She knew many of those sculptures, the ones he had made initially, but a lot of them were new. His art had refined over the years, chiseled itself, and his creations had become something else.
She went to the one of a man’s hand reaching out over the space to something, the tendons and veins, and ridges in the limb beautifully defined, the longing in the way it stretched palpable. Amara lifted her hand, touching her fingers to his smooth ones, feeling the cold of the clay against her fingertips, awed by the art with her tactile senses.
“I was drunk when I made that,” the voice from the door had her turning around to see the creator himself, leaning against the wall, exactly as he’d been that night so many years ago. Amara felt her heartbeat race at the memory.
“It’s beautiful,” she told him softly, pulling her hand back, looking around the room. “What will you do with these?”
“They’ll move to the mansion tomorrow,” he told her, striding in with languid steps. “There’s a room I’ve emptied for it.”
“I’ll miss this one,” Amara confessed, stroking the hand again. “My adolescent self had a few fantasies in this place.”
She felt him step beside her, his finger moving over the length of her exposed arms, his lips at her ear. “Do tell.”
Amara felt wetness pool between her legs, her already-sensitive breasts tingling as her heart thundered. “Sometimes when… sometimes when I used to watch your hands on the clay…” she trailed off.
His finger trailed up her arm slowly, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Yes?” he tugged her lobe between his teeth.
Amara felt herself arch, her hands fisting her dress. “I used to imagine you laying me on the bench, and using your hands on me.”
His finger reached the strap of her dress, going under it, tugging it down.
“Dante-” It was the middle of the day. Anyone could walk in the door.
“And?” he asked, pulling the strap down enough to expose one swollen breast, his fingers going around the areola in maddening circles, her chest heaving as she gripped his forearm.
“That was it,” she moaned as the circle grew inward, so close to her straining nipple, but he didn’t touch it.
“Are you wet for me, dirty girl?” he whispered into her ear, his voice smooth and heady and making her eyes roll back in her head.
“Yes,” she panted.
“How wet?” he asked, his teeth biting her lobe lightly, sending a shot of fire straight to her core. Amara moved one hand to relieve the ache between her legs, only to have him trap both her hands in one firm grip behind her, arching her exposed breast higher for his infuriating circles close to her nipple.
“Why don’t you find out?” she goaded him, needing him to touch her.
“I will,” he assured her. “But tell me first, are you leaking over your thighs?”
“Yes,” she admitted, feeling the wetness pooling.
“And if I ate you out, you’d drip over my chin?”
Dear gods of foreplay, his filthy dirty mouth turned her on.
She nodded.
“Say it,” he commanded.
“Yes, I’d drip over your chin,” she spoke, the words, the visual, his finger driving her crazy.
She felt his scruff brush over the side of her face, the sensation new and thrilling, as he asked, “Does my dirty girl need a dirty fuck?”
God, yes. Yes, she needed one so bad. It had been months.
She nodded.
His finger completed another revolution around her nipple. “You know the best part? I’m going to fuck you bare and come deep inside you. Do you want that?”
“I do,” she breathed.
He let her arms go and stepped back, leaving her slightly disoriented. Before she knew it, he pushed the other strap down, her dress falling to the floor, leaving her naked in broad daylight while he stayed fully dressed in his suit. He picked her up, put her on the table and taking a seat on the bench, pulled her right to the edge, pushing her thighs back and opening her up.
The sunlight fell on her skin, warming her, highlighting every single scar on her body in stark relief. She saw his dark eyes rove over every single one of them, before stopping between her legs.
Although they had done it a hundred times over, her heart still beat like a drum, her body ready and on edge for him. He bent his head, licking the length of her with the flat of his tongue, the sensation making her arch her back on the table.
“Oh god,” she breathed out. “Don’t stop.”
He slowly dipped in again, his tongue diving inside her, tasting her, eating her like she was the finest dish and he was a man starved. Shivers coursed up and down her spine, her skin warming with the sun on the outside and burning with the heat he ignited from the inside, the dual sensation sending her racing towards the edge of the cliff, secure in the knowledge that he would catch her.
He started writing the alphabets on her nub with his tongue, pushing her closer and closer.
She crashed on the D.
Gripping his hair, her spine arching as she pushed her hips closer to him, she felt her orgasm roll over her – quick, hard, fast – quicker than it had ever been before.
Languid from the pleasure, she saw with hooded eyes as he straightened, unzipping his pants, his mouth wet from her juices, and gripped her under the knees, pushing her legs back until she was almost bent in half, her heart beating like crazy as he plunged into her.
A moan left her, her voice straining as his length speared her, his thickness stretching her walls, her inner muscles fluttering as he pulled back, sinking in deeper.
“Hold your legs open,” he instructed her, and she placed her hands under her knees, obeying the command. He bent over her, weight on his forearms at the side of her head, careful to not put any pressure on her stomach, his pelvis rubbing against her in the position, his dark eyes on her face.
He pulled out and snapped again, sending her body slightly up on the table.
“You should’ve known not to run from me, crazy girl,” he grit out, the rage in his eyes transferring to his movements. “I would chase you to the ends of this earth.”
Amara felt her fingers tighten around her thighs, her muscles vibrating with the sexual and emotional hunger only this man satiated in her. His rage infused her blood as she let go of her thighs, hitting him in the chest. “You let me think you were dead, you dick! Dead! Do you know how that destroyed me?”