Chapter 47 My woman
Dante POV
Not as sexy as you…” She dragged both of her hands down my body and gripped my hips so she could pull herself onto my length harder.
Fuck. Isabella was two different women. This version of her worshiped the ground I walked on and couldn’t get enough of me. The sex was so good it erased the war between us.
When we used each other’s bodies, it brought us closer together. We even liked each other, needed each other. She was under this spell as much as I was. She told me I was the best she’d ever had. And she was mine. I stilled my thrusts and leaned over her, holding my mouth just inches above hers. Her hands slid up my back and into my hair. She fisted the short strands and breathed in my face, still moaning even though my dick was idle inside her. Her pussy was soaked, covering my dick from crown to balls. “You think I’m sexy?” I whispered.
“You know I do.” She kissed me, giving me a delicate kiss in the corner of my mouth. “I love being inside you. I never want to not be inside you.” I was the kind of lover who rarely talked, but watching and listening to her want me put me in a sensual mood. I was more aroused than usual, pulsing inside her because this pussy was all mine to enjoy. “Then don’t be. Fuck me.” She kissed me again, this time sucking my bottom lip. “Fuck me and don’t stop.”
Jesus Fucking Christ. “Yes, baby. Yes.”
After I took that picture, we never left my bedroom. I fucked her deep into my mattress, pumping her with more come than I ever did before. It got all over my sheets, but neither one of us seemed to care. We fucked deep into the night, past two in the morning. I’d never fucked the same woman so many times.
By the time I was finished, I couldn’t go anymore. My dick was broken. She fell asleep instantly, and I traveled into my living room. I stared at the plate she snatched as a weapon.
Like she could have stopped me with a plate.
The corner of my mouth rose in a smile, and I poured myself a scotch in the kitchen. There wasn’t much food here because I didn’t come here often. I only passed through. Michael stayed in Lake Riva because that was my
primary residence. I liked to be away from people. People were shitty. I sat at the dining table and looked out the window to the city behind. The lights were bright, reminding me of other big cities I’d been to. They all looked the same at night. I drank my poison and sat in my boxers, letting the liquor do its magic.
I could normally sleep after fucking Isabella, but now I was wide awake. Thinking about that painting. I wanted her to make it for me so I would remember her after she was gone. I wanted to remember my conquest, like a notch on my belt, a mark on my bedpost. But then I felt like shit. It was sick.
I was making her preserve her own memory, capturing herself in a way she didn’t want to be portrayed. Once my enemies were dead, I would have that painting as a trophy, to remember everything I accomplished. But was it really an accomplishment?
I was hurt when she thought I was going to kill her, but did I have any right to be offended when that’s what I wanted to do to her? Didn’t that make me hypocritical?
And since I didn’t kill her when I was supposed to, would I ever actually do it?
Who knew?
My phone lit up with a text message from Max. Are you in Rome?
I texted back. Yes. I didn’t ask how he knew that. We need to meet. The usual place?
I didn’t want them around Isabella. I’ve got company. Conti?
Yes. So you aren’t going to kill her?
I dodged the question. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Let’s meet at our other place. I woke up later than usual because I was up so late.
Isabella was gone, and I assumed she went into the other room to begin her artwork. I changed into my gym clothes and went to my private gym on the next floor. I did an intense
workout before I returned and jumped in the shower. After I had breakfast, I went in search of Isabella. She was exactly where I expected her to be, sitting on a chair at an easel. All the colors were in place, but her image wasn’t clear. She spent so much time detailing every little thing in the room, from the texture of the walls, to the light flooding through the windows, to the tiny details of the curtains.
She was a perfectionist. She didn’t turn around when she heard me walk inside. Her brush was still against the canvas, perfecting the outline of her body against the bed. I walked farther into the room, my eyes glued to her painting. But the second I took my gaze away from her artwork and looked at her, I noticed something. Her shirt. It was my shirt. It was the shirt I’d been wearing when she asked me to take it off. It was the shirt that fell on the ground and lay forgotten while we screwed for the rest of the night. I left it there because I forgot about it, and when I woke up this morning I never picked it up. And now she was wearing it.
Ten sizes too big, it reached her knees, and the sleeves almost touched her elbows. It didn’t show her curves, and it made her look even smaller in comparison. Her legs reached out underneath it, toned and beautiful. I’d never seen a woman wear my shirt before. And look so sexy in it. Time seemed to stand still as I looked at her, unsure how I felt about what I
was looking at. She had a bag of her own clothes, so it wasn’t like she didn’t have anything else to wear. I was always possessive of her, but seeing her in my belongings l seemed to change my hold over her. I felt like I owned her even more. And she wanted me to own her.
I didn’t let my victims humanize themselves. I didn’t let myself get attached to them or pity them. I had to kill them, so they were nothing more than livestock. Like a cow that would be taken out to slaughter for meat. But seeing her in that black t-shirt changed everything.
And I would never look at her the same way again.