Chapter 17 Chapter 17 – Freeway Confession
Chapter 17 Chapter 17 – Freeway Confession
Mya
The hours pass unnoticed and I’m caught blinking in surprise when Dante raps on the glass separating us, pointing at his watch. It’s after five and I guess we’re going home.
Nico’s waiting in the parking garage, next to the SUV he drove here this morning. I head toward him, but Dante grabs my wrist and tugs me to a sleek black sedan. “You’re riding with me. And if you’re late again tomorrow, you’ll stay home,” he tells me casually.
I sit in the passenger seat, my entire body coiled with tension. Work had offered a short respite from the cold war we’re locked into, but now I’m reminded how much I hate him, and why.
The engine hums to life, a low, powerful growl that vibrates up through the seat. A black SUV pulls ahead of us, and two more slides in behind. The silent, efficient procession begins. His empire moves in a bubble of protection, but inside that bubble, I’m defenseless against him.
Dante is the picture of relaxed power as he drives, one arm on the steering wheel, the other loosely draped over the gearshift.
“You’ve been very quiet since we left the tower, Mya,” he observes, low voice slicing through the radio’s soft jazz. “The lack of rebellion is unnerving. Did the dockyard projections finally bore you into obedience?”
“The dockyard projections showed me precisely what you wanted them to,” I snap, turning my head to stare out the window. “That your empire is vast, and my father’s mistake is a fraction of a rounding error. It doesn’t inspire loyalty, Dante. It confirms what a colossal monster you are.”
“Monster,” he repeats, a hint of dark amusement in his tone. “An accurate description. But monsters are predictable. They consume. They don’t deny. Yet here you are, trembling beside me, and I’m aching for you. Why the restraint, Mya? If I were truly a monster, wouldn’t I simply take what I want, wherever I want? It’s in our agreement after all.”
His left hand reaches for me without hesitation. Moving with the swift, practiced authority of a man who knows he has permission, even if it hasn’t been spoken.
My eyes widen as his fingers find the zipper of my trousers and tugs it down. The subtle sound of the metal teeth pulling apart is loud in the car’s quiet interior.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, the sound breathy, utterly betraying what should be my outrage.
He doesn’t look at me. His gaze is fixed on the road, watching the traffic surrounding us.
“Teaching you the difference between a monster and a husband, Mya. A monster would have ripped these off you in the office and taken his pleasure when he felt the urge. A husband demands your attention, your focus, and your ultimate submission to his needs.”
His fingers dip beneath the waistband of my panties. The delicate fabric is already slick and damp. I knew the moment his hand reached for me where it was going, and my body reacted with instantaneous, humiliating, urgency.
His middle finger glides effortlessly across the sensitive folds of my labia. I muffle a gasp, the sound lost in the hum of the tires on asphalt.
“Dante, stop it,” I manage, the word threadbare, carrying no conviction. It’s a formality, a last-ditch protest before the surrender.
He chuckles, a low, rough sound deep in his chest. “We’re beyond half-hearted protest, darling. You should know by now that when I touch you, the only acceptable answer is the one your body is already screaming.”
His finger dips lower, sliding effortlessly into my entrance. I clench instantly, my inner muscles tightening around the unexpected invasion. I haven’t even had time to process the shock before he’s in, ruthless and deliberate.
The car, the convoy, the world outside the glass, it all vanishes. There’s only the sensation of him inside me, stretching, filling, moving with a rhythm that is slow, agonizing, and absolutely devastating.
His thumb finds the hard, throbbing peak of my clit, circling it, teasing it with light, feather-soft strokes. The contrast is too much. The slow depth of his finger inside, the hard pressure of his thumb outside, all coordinated by the cold, beautiful man driving us home.
“You’re so tight for me, Mya,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking over to my face for a heartbeat, his own gaze dark and stormy. “Clenching around my finger like that. You missed my touch today, didn’t you? All that mental work and none of the physical release your body truly craves.”
Shame washes over me, scalding and sweet. I hate that he knows this. I hate that he can pinpoint my exact physical state without even looking at me for more than a second.
I don’t answer with words. A low, guttural moan tears itself from my throat, and my head rolls back against the leather headrest. My eyes squeeze shut. I can’t bear to look at the windshield, at the passing cars, at the world that is witnessing my utter, feral undoing.
His finger inside me quickens. He’s finding the angle, hitting the precise spot that makes my breath shatter. My hips lift instinctively, pushing into his hand, begging for more. My internal monologue, usually a fortress of defiance, collapses into pure, desperate sensation.
More. Deeper. Dante. Don’t stop.
He withdraws slightly, pulling the pleasure away, only to thrust back in with a powerful stroke that steals the air from my lungs. “Tell me what you want, Mya. Tell me what my finger is doing to your hungry little body.”
“It’s… it’s too much,” I pant, my voice shaking violently. I reach down, my bandaged hand surprisingly gentle as I try to wrap my fingers around his wrist, not to stop him, but to hold him in place, to anchor the pleasure.
He ignores my request for surrender. He only pulls his finger out, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and replaces it with two, stretching and filling me until I moan and writhe against the leather.
The feeling of being so utterly claimed, so exposed, so completely at his mercy in this public, moving cage is terrifying, intoxicating, and utterly irreversible. The sound of my own wetness, the frantic rasp of my breath, it’s all the proof he needs.
He increases the speed, his thumb circling faster, grinding against my aching clit. I’m drowning in it. The orgasm is a tidal wave, building, building, promising to break me completely when it crests.
“Look at me, Mya,” he commands, his voice going dangerously low.
I open my eyes, my vision blurred, my jaw slack. His face is harsh, beautiful, and utterly consumed by the dark lust I know I put there.
Just as the world turns white, as the first sharp pulse of climax grips my core, he pulls his hand out. Completely.
The sudden absence is a vicious, cold shock. I cry out, a sharp, ragged sound of pure frustration, and my hips buck uselessly against the air.
He barely flinches. He smoothly zips my trousers back up with his now slick, wet hand. He knows I’m watching as he slips his soaking fingers between his lips and sucks my juice from them noisily. “Fuck, you’re so delicious Mrs. Cardello,” he groans, sending another jolt of desire straight to my clit.
His cock is visibly rigid beneath his trousers, a monument to the denial he just inflicted on both of us.
“You’re shaking, Mya,” he says, his voice perfectly steady, calm as ice. “You lost control in my car, surrounded by strangers. You came so close, but you didn’t beg. I’ll keep trying though.”
He pulls us off the freeway exit seamlessly, while I’m still gasping for a normal breath.
“Tonight, you’ll sleep on that hunger,” he continue, glancing at me, his eyes burning with a triumph that makes me want to claw his face off. “And tomorrow, we start again.”
I’m left there, slick, furious, humiliated, and shaking with the raw ache of a denied climax. He’s won this round, but I hate him more than ever. The hate is my only shield against the terrifying truth.
My body craves this monster.