17. Tristan

SEVENTEEN

Tristan

I moan as Dante twists the vibrating plug in my ass. I'm naked in his bed, my hands fisting the sheets. My cock is trapped under me, leaking.

I don't know if I'm still angry with him. The things he does are so wrong. At least by any normal standard. But he's making me question normal standards. Because as much as I hated what he did, I loved it too. He lets me feel both at once. He forces me to be honest about what I feel, but he doesn't try to change it. It's a strange kind of freedom, letting myself feel the full range of my emotions.

It's an even stranger freedom to experience my body like this. Not just my body. My life. Like I can do whatever I want.

The plug is still vibrating as he starts to pull it out. He holds it there, the fattest part of it opening me wide, vibrating against my stretched hole. I start biting the back of my own wrist. I'm making animalist sounds of pleasure and need.

The plug slides free. My ass is in the air, chasing it. My gaping hole flutters, and I groan in frustration at the emptiness.

When my hips start to go down because I want to grind my cock, Dante catches them. "Don't spill," he says in a rough, sexy voice.

My ass is still full of his cum. His fingers dip into it. I make a needful little sound.

"Fuck, you're beautiful. I wish you could see how you look right now."

I probably look like an animal in heat, but I don't care. I want him. I need him.

"Fuck me," I whine. "Please, Dante, I need—"

"I know," he says and slides his cock into me. I groan as his cock fills and stretches me. His arms slide under me. One wraps around my hips. The other reaches up to grip my shoulder. He holds me, pins me, and starts to fuck me.

We make the sloppiest, filthiest sounds as his cock plunges in my cum-filled ass. I feel no embarrassment. I love the sound. I love how it punctuates every thrust of his cock, every rake of his flared tip along my slick inner walls. I love the burst of pleasure every time he glides over my prostate.

I give myself to it entirely. I don't want to come because I don't want it to end, but his thumb extends from where he's gripping my shoulder. It presses into my throat. Two more thrusts and I'm thrashing, screaming, ejaculating into the sheets.

Dante fucks me through it, coming inside me again, filling me so full that cum spills hotly along my taint as he pumps inside me, drawing out my orgasm with his own.

I let myself feel everything. Really, though, I have no choice. He's stripped me bare, robbed me of every defense, of every pretense. I'm just me, convulsing in pleasure as his cock kicks against my prostate, as his cum spills all over me, as his teeth rake the back of my neck and his thumb digs into my throat in total possession of my body.

I must pass out because the next thing I register is a warm, wet cloth cleaning my inner thighs. I grumble softly in protest when Dante pulls me up. He gets me settled on his lap, front to front, straddling him in a kneeling position. The position opens me, and I instinctively clench so I don't spill cum.

He holds the cloth under my ass. His other hand splays against my back.

"Open for me," he says in a low, rough voice. When I make a sound of protest, he presses his cheek against my temple and says gently, "Come on."

I tuck my face against him. Fingers flexing against his pecs, I try to do as he says. At first I'm embarrassed when cum spills from my hole into the cloth he's holding under me. But he murmurs against me, pleased, so I let myself open.

I feel so fucking vulnerable as I let my body release like that, as I let him hold me and catch the spill from my ass. It's so intimate that even though I'm not upset, my eyes prickle. Tears spill. Dante's face shifts. Hesitantly, his lips press against my temple. He kisses me.

With anyone else, such a small kiss wouldn't mean much, but Dante has never, ever kissed me before, not in any way. I sigh against him and relax.

Later, we're down in the kitchen. I barely got one bite of my steak at the charity dinner, so Dante makes curry.

"Where did you learn to cook?" I ask him as he slides a bowl in front of me.

We're both wearing warmups and t-shirts. His left forearm is bandaged. Maybe I should stop stabbing him.

"The internet," he answers.

"Oh."

"Did you imagine I had private culinary lessons or something?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I find the lives of rich people hard to imagine."

"Hm."

He doesn't offer anything, of course. I want to ask him about himself, but I don't know where to start. I don't know how. His relationship with his parents is obviously tense. We went to the dinner tonight because of his mother, but their brief interaction was so strained that it was painful to watch. To someone who doesn't know Dante, it would have looked like he was being a complete ass to her, but I could tell he was trying. And he never even spoke to his father.

I had forgotten about it until now. It was right after that that he started tormenting me with the vibration. I don't think that was a coincidence. Now, looking back, I don't really know how to feel about him turning on me like that. But he didn't really turn on me, not in the sense of turning against me. He took control of me. He fixated on me.

When he does that, it's so intense that I always think I can't handle it. But every time, he just pushes my boundaries back a little further. He shows me another part of myself.

Why is he like this?

Or maybe I should be asking: why do I like that he is? But I know the answer to that.

Everything with Dante is so fucking real .

I know he's dangerous. He's controlling and domineering. He's sometimes cruel. He's maybe a little crazy. But he's also taken better care of me than anyone in my life has ever done. He's made me feel seen . Like I really exist. Like it matters that I do.

"Do you want more curry?" he asks. "Or do you want ice cream?"

"Ice cream?" I echo incredulously. "Since when did a dessert enter this house?"

He pretends to be annoyed, but I can tell he's amused.

I give him a skeptical look. "It's probably vanilla, isn't it?"

"What about me strikes you as vanilla?"

I burst out laughing. He smiles. I fucking love when he smiles. It reveals such a different side of him.

"So what is it?" I ask.

"Vanilla," he deadpans.

"No, it's not."

He sighs, disappointed that I called his bluff, because, no, it's not vanilla. It has all kinds of crap in it, caramel and cookie pieces and more than one kind of chocolate. It's decadent and totally delicious.

Dante is usually so obnoxiously healthy that I get a lot of enjoyment out of watching him eat it.

I say, "I notice you offered me two dishes that require a spoon."

"Yeah, well, you're very stabby today. Though I'm sure you could still hurt me with that if you wanted."

"And today I learned that you could stop me if you wanted." Not that I didn't already suspect that. He's so much stronger than me. He manhandles me so easily. And the scars on his body—knife wounds, bullet wounds, and that awful slice along his inner thigh to his groin—tell me that he's used to fighting.

Why the hell is someone who grew up so rich so scarred by violence? Why can't I make myself ask him? Am I afraid of his reaction? Or of the answer?

But he takes the conversation in a different direction. "You can stab me if you want, but don't go trying to stab other people. It's dangerous."

"That's the weirdest statement I've ever heard."

"I mean it, Tristan. That guy you tried to attack, he's not someone for you to fuck with."

I almost blurt out the name, because I know very well who "that guy" is. Dominic Capelli. Son of Lorenzo Capelli.

I honestly don't know what made me lunge at him, his homophobic words or who he is. I was so raw at that moment, so stripped of my usual barriers, that I just reacted.

"So you know him?" I ask.

"Yes."

"You don't seem to be friends," I observe, hoping he'll offer something.

He only responds with, "Don't worry about him."

"But—"

"If you see him again, get away from him. He's dangerous."

" You're dangerous," I point out.

"Yes, but I have rules. He doesn't."