11. Dante

ELEVEN

Dante

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but my hands are bloody. I leave the holding cell and shut the door on my captive's sobs. Normally, I would ignore the phone when I'm in the middle of an interrogation, but I have a feeling it's about Tristan.

Part of me is alarmed by how quickly he's taken center stage in my mind, distracting me from other work, making that work seem like it's the distraction from him . That part of me hopes my obsession will burn itself out as quickly as it ignited.

Another part of me doesn't want this to ever end—which is actually the scariest thought of all.

This has never happened before. I've certainly never moved anyone in with me.

But Tristan is different.

Looking back, it was obvious from the start, but I didn't really know it until he watched me stitch my leg. I think his response surprised him as much as it surprised me. I don't think I've ever come as hard as I did when I fucked him on that bathroom floor, when I clamped my hand on his throat to show him how fully I was taking possession of him.

He wants it, maybe needs it. But he fights himself on it—and fights me. So I'm pretty sure I know exactly what text message I just received.

After washing my hands in the warehouse basement's small bathroom, I sit in the chair at my research station. The monitors show the feeds from my surveillance of Lorenzo Capelli. There's a huge stack of folders at the edge of the desk. Notes. Pictures. All kinds of shit. One of the folders is open to reveal my handwritten notes on the dealer in the holding cell.

Normally, I ignore bottom-feeding scum like him. I prefer to focus on abusers and creeps. It's not altruistic. It's just part of the rules.

Noah helped me figure them out, and he wouldn't be happy if he knew how much time I'm spending on anyone tied to Capelli. He thinks I should kill Capelli and be done with it. But this is my game, and I'll play it like I want.

I don't want to simply kill Capelli. I want to destroy him first, and I want to do it a piece at a time.

Tristan, however, keeps rearranging my schedule.

I pull out my phone and read Kenzie's message.

He doesn't want to move his shit

I smile. I fucking knew it. And I'm both annoyed and delighted. I message back, Let him have his way.

Kenzie: Shiiiiiit! He's in for it, isn't he?

I type, Don't let him know that.

Kenzie: Dammit! You get to have all the fun

I do. In fact, my cock is already hardening at the thought of exactly how angry Tristan will be when I realizes what I've done. Rather, what I'm about to do … as soon as he leaves for work.

* * *

I'm in the kitchen when I hear the penthouse door. I told Kenzie to give Tristan my code when she brought him back from Lush. He walks in with a ratty duffle bag like he's here for a fucking sleepover. It's not easy to suppress my evil grin, but I manage. I want him to eat before shit hits the fan.

He hesitates briefly at the kitchen entrance, but something about me cooking seems to make him comfortable. Am I less threatening with an apron over my jeans and t-shirt? Does he think it's going to prevent me from throwing him down and fucking him if I want to?

"Pour some wine," I tell him as I whisk the vinaigrette.

Tristan walks over to the island and drops his duffle bag. "Do you always cook like this?"

"The alternatives are unacceptable."

"What are the alternatives?" he asks as he pours wine into the waiting glasses.

I love that Tristan doesn't need small talk. It's so exhausting and boring. "Crappy food or having someone in my place to cook."

He pushes one glass toward me and sips from the other. "And you don't like people in your place."

"No. I don't."

The fact that he is here, that I'm in fact requiring him to be here, stretches unspoken between us.

He eyes the salad as I pour the vinaigrette over it. Then he sniffs the air. "What is that?"

"Eggplant Parmesan."

His eyebrows jump. "Okay, Mister Fancy Pants."

"You work at one of the fanciest nightclubs in the city."

"Yeah, but." He says that like it's a complete sentence.

"But what?"

His cheeks flush. He ignores my question.

"But what , Tristan?"

He shrugs and looks away. "You've seen my place."

Yeah, I have, and he's never going back to that mold-infested shithole. But he doesn't know that yet.

Tristan sits at the island and drinks wine while I clean up the kitchen. I didn't take him for a wine drinker, but that red is going down pretty fast. He's nervous, probably because tonight he had to walk in here alone, unmistakably of his own volition. He hasn't even taken off his shoes or tie or sexy-as-hell suspenders. The sleeves of his light blue button down are rolled up though, exposing his lean forearms.

He looks good in my place with the living room and nightscape of the city behind him. I knew he would.

He says, "You cleaned up in here before I woke up this morning."

I don't reply because, yes, I obviously did. I actually did it about an hour after he fell asleep in my bed.

He says, "You obviously work out a lot."

Working out is necessary for me. I've used it since … well, since the beginning to take control of my body. In fact, after I returned to bed with Tristan and slept for a few hours, I worked out for a while in my weights room.

There were a few surprises in all of that. One, that I was able to sleep at all with someone in my bed. And two, that when I fingered Tristan's ass and found his hole puffy, I left him alone. It wasn't easy with my cock that hard, but that's the point of the workout. To refocus. To take control.

I'm not going to tell Tristan any of that.

He adds, "You eat healthy and you don't drink much."

"What are you getting at, Tristan?"

"I guess I'm just wondering, don't you do anything for fun?"

A laugh bursts from me. It feels so unfamiliar, so outside my control, that at first I don't like it. Then I see the smile on Tristan's face. It's a little hesitant, but he looks pleased. He likes that he made me laugh.

I decide that I like it too, so I let him enjoy a moment of victory before I say, "For fun, I fuck beautiful men on bathroom floors until they come so hard that I have to hold them down while they buck and thrash on my cock."

Tristan's lips are now parted, his face flushed. His hazel eyes have darkened, then they close as he shudders, remembering.

I lay out the food, and we eat. Based on the contents of Tristan's fridge, he's not used to good food. He likes it though. He's willing to try things. He fascinates me with his blend of boldness and submission.

After, I let him help me with most of the cleanup, then I tell him, "Go take your bag upstairs. Put it in the closet."

I finish quickly while he heads up to the loft. Then I stand at the island and sip my wine while I wait. I'm buzzing with anticipation, and when I hear, "What the fuck ?" there's a sizzle in my body. I feel it everywhere, but especially in my balls.

Tristan storms out onto the landing. His hands slap onto the railing. He's barefooted, his tie loose. He must have been changing when he noticed all his clothes in there. Well, all except for the ones I got rid of.

"What the fuck?" he shouts down at me.

"I told you you're staying here."

"You can't do shit like that!"

"It's already done. I talked to your landlord. Your lease has been terminated."

"It's my lease. How can you—never fucking mind. Where's the rest of my shit?"

"Down the hall." I tilt my head to the left.

Tristan comes barreling down the stairs. He storms past me. He's about fifteen feet away, but his anger is so intense that I can feel it all the way over here.

He heads down the hallway, throwing open doors. He does a double-take at the play room but storms onward until he reaches the spare room.

I follow him to the room. He's standing in the middle of it, his furious gaze raking over his computer, which is set up at a sleek table with an ergonomic chair. I left the junk behind for his slumlord to deal with, but I brought anything that looked personal. His books take up two shelves of a bookcase. He reads mostly fantasy, but there were a few sci-fis and historicals.

Tristan's hands are fisted at his sides. His furious eyes lock on me. "You had no right to do that."

"You're angrier about this than you were about me drugging you. Why?"

"Because this shit is mine !"

If there were something in his hand right now, he would throw it.

I remind him, "You had the opportunity to bring everything yourself. I told you: your choice was to stay here or say the word."

He glares at me. His chest is heaving. His nostrils are flared. He's not hard right now, but I am. I have all the power. There's nothing he can do but submit or quit. He won't quit, I'm sure of it. He's hungry for intensity. He wants his boundaries shoved back. It excites him.

I wait for him to attack me. He wants to. Instead, he walks past me. Curious, I follow him. Maybe he'll run so I can chase him. When we reach the living room, I realize he has his phone at his ear.

Anger roars through me. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

I grab him by the collar and yank him back. I snatch the phone away as he pinwheels.

" Who is this ?" comes mutedly through the phone. " Dante, is that you? "

I jolt at the familiar voice. I stare at the phone and see Noah's name on the screen. I let go of Tristan. He backs away from me.

" Dante? "

Fuck.

I want to end the call, but if I do, Noah will just call my phone. If I don't answer, he'll come over here.

I put the phone to my ear. "I'm here."

"Are you safe?"

I swallow hard at the familiar question. "Yes."

"Whose phone is this?"

"Tristan's."

I gave him Tristan's name after he signed the contract. It's one of the rules.

"Is he safe?"

I don't answer because I'm so fucking angry that probably no one is safe around me right now.

Noah asks, "Why did Tristan call me and why did you take the phone from him?"

"He's angry about something I did."

"What did you do, Dante?"

"I moved his stuff into my place and terminated his lease," I answer in a flat voice.

Noah is silent for a long while. He doesn't ask for context. He knows me well enough to put things together himself. Then he says, "He needs to have his own place."

"His apartment wasn't safe."

"Then find him a safe one. Tomorrow, Dante."

I grind my teeth. Anger seethes in my belly.

"Confirm," Noah says.

"Yes," I grit out.

"Good. Give the phone to Tristan."

I hold out the phone. Tristan still looks furious, but he also looks surprised and wary. He snatches the phone from me.

"Hello?" he says. "Yes, I'm okay." He listens for a while, then his shoulders sag with relief and he says, "Good. Thank you." Then he says, "Yeah, I will. Thanks."

He ends the call. As he lowers the phone, all the tension returns to his body. There's still some anger, but it's not as strong. He got his way. But he still has me to deal with.

I say with icy cold, "I gave you his number for emergencies, not so you could leverage him against me."

"Who is he?"

"That's none of your fucking business. Give me the phone."

Tristan hesitates then hands it to me. I take it to the kitchen and set it on the island.

"Go to the play room," I tell him.

I watch as he considers fighting me on it. He decides not to. I follow him to the play room. I close the door behind us.

He draws back from me, but I catch him by his tie. He stiffens, but I only untie it. Then I push his suspenders off his shoulders. When I tug his shirt free of his waistband, he sucks in a breath. He's semi-hard by the time I have it off him, but he doesn't try to touch me or participate.

His instincts are good. He knows I'm dangerous right now. That doesn't stop his cock from stiffening as I remove his pants and briefs.

"Get on the bed," I order him. "Kneel facing me."

He's breathing hard now, nervous but also curious. His anger is gone. For now.

When he's kneeling on the bed, I step onto it behind him. I grab the padded leather cuffs. He lets me bind his wrists, but when I stretch his arms up to secure the cuffs to one of the overhead bars, he starts to fight. It's too late, however, and it's easy for me to get his cuffs attached to the bar.

I step down and grab one of his ankles.

"Hey!" he shouts and tries to yank it away from me. I slap his ass hard enough that it stings my hand. "Ow! You fucking asshole! You started all this! You shouldn't have moved my stuff!"

The resurgence of his anger helps me calm down enough that when I secure his ankle binding to the frame, I make sure his kneeling position is comfortable. That's important—because he's going to be there for a while.

I move behind the bed to secure Tristan's other ankle. His ass cheek is red from my slap. His breathing is heavy. And yet, in the mirrors across from him, I watch his hard cock twitch upward.

My own cock is a stiff rod in my jeans. But it's going to stay there. I'm too fucking angry.

I go to the cabinet and choose a curved, bulbous prostate massager. Tristan is looking over his shoulder, trying to see what I'm doing. I keep my back to him to block his view of what I've chosen. He probably thinks I'm looking for a whip or something, but I save that shit for the holding cell. I lube the massager then return to the bed.

Standing to the side of him so I can watch his actual face instead of his reflection, I position the toy against his hole. His lips part as he sucks in a breath. His eyes widen as I push the device into his ass.

When I turn it on, his stomach contracts and his cock jerks upward. It's tempting to put it on a high setting so that his moans will be loud enough for me to hear in the weights room, but that might make him come. He's not allowed to come until I return, so I keep the vibration low. It still has him biting his lip.

Then I walk to the door.

"Where are you going? Dante!" he shouts as I walk out. "You fucking prick!"