Chapter 19 Chapter 19 – The Spying Escalation
Chapter 19 Chapter 19 – The Spying Escalation
Mya
I wake up trapped. Not by ropes or chains, but by the weight of Dante’s arm across my stomach and the hard, unyielding length of his cock pressed into the small of my back.
It’s an agonizing reminder of the control he wields over every cell in my body.
He’s already awake. His breaths are an even, low rumble against the back of my neck. He’s waiting to see what my first move will be.
I lie perfectly still, gathering the strength to get up and continue this ridiculous war of wills. I wish he’d just go ahead and take me already. Take the choice out of my hands, so I can pretend I want no part of it.
I’m already overheated. The silk sheets cling to my clammy skin, while my body aches with a deep, humiliating hunger that has nothing to do with food.
The hours of grinding denial from the day before, combined with his constant, possessive proximity, leave me feeling raw and desperate. I want to claw my way out of this bed, but that would mean admitting his presence affects me.
I shift slightly, testing the boundaries. His arm tightens, pulling me back until my hips settle perfectly into the cradle of his. The movement sends a sharp bolt of familiar craving straight down my core.
“Don’t move, Mrs. Cardello,” he murmurs. His voice is thick with sleep, yet laced with absolute command. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself later.”
He doesn’t have to elaborate. I know exactly what he means. Worse means closer to the climax he refuses to give me. Worse means closer to the surrender he demands.
The morning routine is a calculated minefield. The glass-walled shower is a torture chamber designed for two, yet we never touch beyond the necessary proximity of washing.
He keeps his eyes on me, watching every flinch, every involuntary tightening of my muscles when he washes his own body, strong and indifferent just inches away. I hate how perfect he is, how utterly unbothered he seems by the constant, throbbing proof of his arousal.
I have to keep telling myself not to stare at his enormous testicles, swinging hypnotically under his veined and throbbing cock.
At the tower, I gratefully dive back into the data. Millions of transactions, shell companies nested like Russian dolls, logistics reports that detail the movement of everything from wine to construction steel.
My original plan to find proof, send it out and watch him fall, feels naïve and childish now. I can’t copy anything. I can’t communicate. I’m a hard drive trapped inside a secure network, and Dante is the system administrator.
I spend the day meticulously building an analog file. I’m forced to memorize patterns, numbers, code words, and the specific sequence of foreign manifest numbers. I repeat them silently in my head as I work, etching them into my brain. I don’t use a pen or paper to make notes that would be confiscated. I just stare at the screen, my eyes burning, storing the data like a vault I can access later.
He probably knows what I’m doing. The prick seems to know everything.
I glance through the glass wall. Dante is on a video conference, his face intent, his movements sharp and concise. He’s all cold power, making decisions that affect the lives of thousands. The casual ruthlessness is what makes him so terrifying, yet so magnetic. He is the apex predator in a field of mice, and I'm watching him hunt.
My eyes fall on the thick, plush carpet under my desk. It’s the kind of dark blue that swallows light nd I keep staring at it, my brain throbbing from the amount of data I’m attempting to stuff into it. In my current state the chances of me remembering much of it is negligible. Then I have a flash of inspiration, sharp and desperate.
I wait until he’s deeply engrossed in a discussion about a merger before I slide my chair back, grab my purse, and walk out of the office. Nico is stationed right outside, massive and impassive.
“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” I tell him in a bored voice.
Nico nods once, his face impassive. He follows me, keeping a respectful distance, but close enough to stop me if I deviate by a single inch or try to make a run for it. I’m not that delusional. Dante owns everyone in this building.
Inside the opulent bathroom, I wait for stall door to click shut behind me, before I unlock my cell phone. The glorified homing beacon Dante gifted me. I quickly open the notes app, while the information is still fresh in my mind.
Dante won’t have cameras in this bathroom. He’d get sued if he tried that bullshit on anyone other than me. I quickly type in the first critical piece of data. CODE: D-18-ALPHA. It refers to a particular shell company and a significant, untraceable transfer of funds.
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is it. My first physical piece of evidence, small as a grain of sand. It’s a pathetic, flimsy victory, but it's mine.
When I step out, Nico is exactly where I left him and we walk back in silence.
I’m settled back at my desk and honed in on work when Dante walks into my office without knocking, holding two small, porcelain cups.
“Time for a break,” he says, setting one down in front of me. It’s a double espresso, black and scalding. “You look like you’re ready to fall asleep in the ledgers, Mrs. Cardello.”
I grab the cup, grateful for the bitter burn. I need the caffeine. I need the sharp taste to cut through the heavy air of his dominance.
He leans over my chair, placing his hands on the padded arms, caging me in. He doesn’t touch me, but the sheer proximity of his body, the scent of his cologne, the heat radiating off him, is an assault on my senses.
“Found anything interesting yet?” he asks, his voice low, eyes fixed on the screen, but his attention is all on me.
“Only that the Cardello organization wastes an obscene amount of paper on legitimate transactions,” I snap, lifting the cup to my lips. “It’s a boring read.”
He smiles slowly, a dark, knowing curve of his mouth. “Perfection is achieved through careful editing. You’re looking for the unedited parts, aren’t you?”
He moves his hands from the chair arms, and one of them brushes the sensitive skin of my neck. His thumb grazes the line of my jaw, moving lower, stopping just above the fabric of my shirt collar.
His eyes meet mine, and they’re dark, satisfied, and fully aware of the storm raging inside me. He doesn't move his hand, just lets the heat of his palm radiate through the silk of my blouse, directly onto my skin.
“You’re shaking, Mya,” he says, his voice a low, rough whisper. He leans closer, his lips inches from my ear. “That tiny racing pulse tells me I’m close to something important. Why don’t you just admit what you need?”
He trails his thumb further down, lightly brushing the swell of my breast just above the line of the suit jacket. The contact is devastating. My nipple tightens instantly, a hard, aching knot against the silk.
He pulls his hand away with a soft chuckle, stepping back slightly, his expression one of perfect, civilized amusement. “Finish your coffee. We’ll be working late tonight.”
He walks back into his office, leaving me drowning in rage, and a humiliating, desperate arousal. He keeps marking his territory, reminding me that no amount of defiant rebellion is going to change the fact that I crave his touch.