And almost buckled down, the heaviness between her thighs almost knocking her to her knees. She was sore. Goodness, she was sore. One step and she remembered the fullness of him, the feeling of having him inside her, the sheer bliss. One step.
How the fuck was she supposed to walk out into the restaurant?
The same way she walked into her house every day.
Steeling her spine at the sobering thought, she passed him, the memory of pleasure resonating with every single step, the wetness perpetual around her sore walls, somehow hungry for even more.
His hand caught her arm just as she passed him, and she turned her head sideways, looking up at him, raising her eyebrows silently.
"Break his arm next time," he said quietly, his blue eyes magnificent, the sheer power in them making her heart pound.
His words sank in.
She snatched her arm back, a sneer curling her lips. "Touch me again, and I will break yours."
"Once was more than enough, Ms. Vitalio."
Her hackles rose. "I'll tell that to the notch on my bedpost, Mr. Caine."
Without waiting for his response, she strode towards the door, not giving a fuck about how he would escape the ladies’ room. He had come in; he could go out.
Unlocking the door, she pulled it open, to find two men waiting for her towards the end of the corridor.
Not glancing back where she could feel his eyes on her back, she walked towards the men, her head high. Her stride was steady even as the soreness between her legs throbbed with each step, reminding her again and again of exactly what she had done and let be done to her, reminding her of the man who'd done it, reminding her of the pleasure she hadn't wanted to feel but had, and to what degree. Every single step. Her throbbing core spasmed on air, getting hungrier. She'd just had the most mind-blowing orgasm, and she felt anything but sated. What was wrong with her?
The men started walking behind her, their guns hidden under their jackets, stance alert.
Morana entered the main eating area, her eyes falling to the Outfit table at the other corner, her eyes meeting Dante's. He knew. His gaze told her he knew exactly what she'd been doing, and where his blood brother was. But she saw no judgment, no trepidation, and no pity in his eyes. Just tiredness.
She looked away before she could linger, heading towards her father's table, her face clear of all her emotions and turmoil.
Without looking at anyone, she took her seat rigidly, her lips pursed, her thighs clenching tightly to keep the throb to a minimum. She was aware of her father watching her, and she looked up, challenging his eyes. The creep beside her glared at her.
Her phone vibrated.
She broke the gaze and looked down at it.
Tristan Caine: How many notches does that bedpost have?
Her jaw almost dropped at the audacity of him. How dare he?
She quickly typed a reply, memories – of friction, of heat, of pleasure – flooding her with more and more rage.
Me: All you need to know about my bedpost is simple.
Tristan Caine: And that is?
Me: You'll be on it just once. Been there. Done that.
She waited for his reply. It didn't come.
She felt his gaze on her back, her nape prickling, and deja-vu hit her like a train wreck.
This was exactly where she'd been almost an hour ago. Exactly where she'd been. Same place, same people, same plots.
Except she had changed.
She didn't want to admit it, but she had. Something, very, very tiny, had shifted infinitesimally within the hour, with her acceptance of her desire, her locking of the door, her opening her legs for him. She didn't want to admit it, but it had. And she'd die before she let anyone else know it. Least of all him.
The table broke up finally, people getting up and turning to leave, shaking hands with her father. She stood up as well, standing as tall as she could in her heels, ignoring the ache in her belly and south, one hand holding her clutch and phone, the other beside her hips.
The creeper turned to her, taking her free hand and bringing it to his lips before she could blink. Morana felt her skin crawl, even more than it had earlier when he had been trying to grope her thigh. It was just his lips pressing into the back of her fingers, a gesture so many men had repeated at the end of so many dinners, and while they'd always disgusted her, this felt more intense, more.
She could feel his stare boring into her exposed back, the man who'd fucked her minutes ago a few feet away, the man she hated, while the creeper kissed her hand. His gaze burned on her back, on her neck, on her spine.
'Break his arm next time.'
The stare intensified. She tried to pull her hand back. The man didn't let go.
Her father looked around the room. The stare never left her back. Was he trying to start a war? He needed to look away!
The entire restaurant was on edge, everyone on alert, hands hovering over weapons, tension ratcheting higher and higher as her father's men headed towards the main door.
The creeper finally let go. She picked up a napkin from the table and wiped her hands, insulting him, and her father blatantly.
"I hope we meet again soon," the man told her.
"Sure, if you want another sprain and some broken bones," she said, her words loud enough for people to stiffen.
His gaze lingered. Her body throbbed.
She started walking towards the door with the party, keeping her gaze deliberately averted from the table in the corner, the table from where she could feel his gaze searing her, watching her every move like a panther watched a doe – still, quiet, waiting.
Her phone vibrated in her palm. Turning her eyes away, she peeked at it quietly as the men walked.
She saw the message and everything came rushing through her – the anger, the desire, the hate, the regret – mixing together in a concoction she barely even recognized anymore.
Her breath hitched.
Her body buzzed in memory on his rough hands and thrusting hips, hips she could still feel against hers, blue, blue eyes staring into hers, with the same emotions mirrored back for the split second the mask cracked.
She saw the text, and her stomach dropped, her heart pounding.
Tristan Caine: Apparently, you're not out of my system, Ms. Vitalio.
Her father stopped her before she'd processed it, his dark eyes cold, icy on hers.
Her stomach dropped again, for an entirely different reason.
"What were you doing with Tristan Caine?"
Panic hit.
Her heart stopped.
For a split second.
And then it kick-started with a vengeance, thumping wildly, the ache between her legs throbbing with every mad thud.
Keeping her face clear of all expressions, keeping her body completely still, not showing even the hint of the rampage inside her, aware of her father's shrewd eyes sharp on her for any indication of guilt, Morana raised a quiet brow.
"Who's Tristan Caine?"
Her voice stayed steady; her insides shook.
Before her father could respond, the other exit of the restaurant at the end of the street opened and Morana saw her father's eyes turn to it. Steadying herself, not to make any moves that could give her away, she turned along with him and saw the men of the Outfit walk out the door, towards the other end of the lot where their cars were parked. Four men exited in a file before Dante stepped out, his huge body that was his namesake athletic in his suit. Morana saw him turn and stare at her father.