Chapter 198

I insisted to Cole that I wanted to go with him and Kay to his house. I didn't let him in. It was out of the question. Van Doren waited for me, which made me nervous since I didn't want his company. Our drive to the forest was silent. He hated me for reasons I didn't understand before. Now, even though I had a brief justification in my mind, it didn't take away the absurdity of him seeing me as an inferior person. He was a son of a bitch. "Emilia." His voice trailed off when I opened the door to his car. "I wouldn't hurt Kayleen or Penelope." I turned around, upset. "As if I could believe that." "You can think whatever you want about me, just as I think what I want about you," he snapped. "Since you were little, you've been a bothersome brat who gets involved where you shouldn't, and if you had listened to me back then, you wouldn't be stuck with us." I had to agree. At least Cole had done everything he could to keep me away from them.

“But I overdid it a few times and I didn’t like that.”

The surprise at his implicit apology startled me.

“Well, you’ve hurt me many times,” I said. “And your contempt for me is palpable.”

“You’ll never change.” His face was serious. “You weaken Dante and that destroys not only him but also us who are united by a fucking pact. That day he told you he was in love with you, he punched me so hard that Asher had to stop him. The marks I had left on his neck weren’t very well received by him.

I didn’t ask why he knew the moment Dante told me he was in love with me, assuming he had told him. But the surprise of learning that Faulker had not only shot him, but had later beaten his friend caused me a strange feeling. Back then, he cared.

“I don’t agree that you’re still alive,” he continued. — I'll always think that your death would be a quicker solution, but maybe I haven't been a good boy in years.

A laugh escaped my mouth.

... My chest tightened thinking about Dante. About what had really happened to him that night. I never thought to ask him the truth. I always thought that nothing would justify killing so many people just for revenge. But what kind of revenge was it? Who were his targets really? What did Dante want so much?

However, I still debated how, even though Faulkner had been through a situation that would rip out any heart and replace it with poison, he had something for me.

Dante always defended me, even though now we could die for a deal.

Instead of following the path to my room, I stopped at Faulkner's door.

He was probably sleeping or playing the violin on the balcony, however, no sound other than my torn heart echoed that early morning.

With no intention of knocking on the door, I entered his room and was surprised to see the bed empty, only a few sheets unmade and the book open.

I didn't need to get closer to identify that it was one of Shakespeare's works. One that had left such an impression on us.

Romeo and Juliet.

Was he rereading?

I decided to go back, feeling weak, to look for him. It wasn't a good decision. However, a masculine sound caught my attention. It was coming from the only door near the closet.

I shortened the inches, trying to understand what was happening.

The sounds became clearer.

My belly started to churn.

Spasms of water. A quick back and forth. Hoarse moans.

I bit my lower lip, touching the door lightly. My hand itched to open it and enter that bathroom. I wanted to see. I wanted to know how he touched himself. How Dante satisfied himself. How those hands that killed were giving himself pleasure.

His moans were slow, degrading, consumed by lust.

I could hear how his hand slid over his cock and rose hard. How his fist contoured the length and slid until it reached its peak. I imagined what it would be like inside me. What would it be like if he thrust deep into my pussy, stealing my breath, finishing me off in every way possible?

My breath began to falter.

My legs were shaking enough to force my knees to buckle.

Lethargically, my hand reached between my legs. Let it go.

I felt a finger pull a piece of my panties aside and enter between my lips.

I gave more space for another finger to join in, feeling wet and slippery.

I made circular movements on my clitoris. My muscles became tense and heavy, begging for a faster exit and a more aggressive entry of my fingers.

I focused on the abrupt sound of Dante's fist against his penis. How he must have been sweating, leaning against the wall of the bathtub, kept upright while he fucked himself in his own hand.

I didn't give him any room to stop. He kept going in and out of me. Making my blood turn to lava, contorting my muscles as he fucked me.

I slightly raised my ass, lowering my head and squeezing my eyes, thinking about how good it would be if he were doing this behind me. Watching me put his fingers inside my pussy, massaging my clitoris and sighing his name. Dante would be holding his cock between my ass, sliding it into the space and moaning loudly and possessively my name. He would run his thumb over my entrance, trying painfully not to insert it so as not to hurt me. But I would like it. I would like him to hurt me. I wanted him to give me his pain. To fuck me until there was no ounce of sanity left. To show me all his damn cruel parts even in bed, against the wall, on the kitchen counter, in the bathroom. I wanted him to give me all his anger in the world and I would give him all the disgust and hatred I had for him. My fingers went harder, faster, consumed by the anger of what it was like to feel pleasure thinking about Dante Faulkner. By the anger of wanting the guy who had ruined my life. Fuck. And it was good to think. It was so good to want Dante to make me his. — Tell me what you're doing, Emília. His voice messed with my cells. My inspiration was suspended. However, despite realizing my mistake at that moment, I didn't feel like interrupting.

"Don't fucking stop," he said, from behind that door. He was close. Dante was very close. "Keep touching yourself. I want to hear your pussy. I want to hear how it likes to be fucked."

"Dante."

My windpipe was burning.

I was sweating heavily. My ribcage was constantly expanding, with all the air it stole from that space.

"How many fingers are you using?"

I couldn't get used to that hoarse voice, soaked in desire. Dante was panting between words. I knew he was holding back from opening that door. He was doing everything he could to not ruin what was already being destroyed.

"Two."

"Can you put one more in?" he murmured.

"Yes..."

Shame and guilt pulsed as did the sensitive region. It was ugly. A mistake. A sin. There was no salvation for my soul after that. I had to bite my lip to think more about the pain than about what I was doing. However, it wasn't enough to stop another finger from entering the slippery walls, and the air was released from my throat.

"Fuck, Gray... Don't stop. Because if you stop, I'll have to open this door and keep going, but neither of us wants that, do we?" I nodded, panting. "I want your voice. Speak." "I won't stop." "Good girl. Now I want you to describe to me how you're feeling." I knew his fist was still sliding on his cock. Now the sound formed a real image. I was able to salivate at the decadence of that action. Dante was masturbating right next to me, only divided by a door.

I was reluctant to join in the fun, even though I wanted it enough to give up many essential things in my life. However, feeling threatened by Dante's pause and the raw strength in his cock, I breathed the words.