The Weight Of My Life

The scent of sandalwood and raw, masculine sweat hung heavy in the air. My knees sank into the plush Egyptian cotton of the mattress as I set the pace, riding him. Dante Moretti lay beneath me, his arms crossed behind his head, the hard ridges of his abdomen flexing beneath his skin. He watched me with those stormy, unfathomable gray eyes, and for one brief, stupid moment, I allowed myself to believe I was in control. His large, calloused hands slid up my thighs, gripping the flesh with a firmness that bordered on pain. I threw my head back, letting my hair cascade over his chest, focusing entirely on the mission: distract him, grab the flash drive from his office safe, and vanish into the night. But then, he stopped. The air in the bedroom seemed to freeze. His hand dropped from my hip and clamped onto my jaw, forcing my gaze down to meet his. "You think you're in control just because you're riding me? Cute." His voice was a dark, gravelly rumble that vibrated right through my chest. "But we both know the truth, gattina." In one brutal, fluid motion, he reversed our positions. The world spun, and before I could even blink, my wrists were pinned above my head, immobilized by a single one of his massive hands. The heavy weight of his body crushed me into the mattress, his searing heat burning right through my skin. "I only let you touch me so I could feel the exact moment you realized you're never leaving my cage." He dragged his nose along my neck, inhaling my scent like a junkie starved for a fix. The s*x shifted instantly. The fake, calculated seduction I had rehearsed shattered, replaced by a raw, possessive, and utterly overwhelming claiming. He didn't ask for permission; he took. Every thrust was a punishment and a worship all at once, blurring the razor-thin line between hatred and blinding desire. "f**k, look at me," he commanded, his voice ragged, his eyes darkening with an obsession that terrified and thrilled me in equal measure. "You're a terrible liar, Maya. Your body trembles, but it's not from fear. It's because you know you belong to me." He denied my climax, his thumb pressing relentlessly against the exact nerve that would ruin me, pushing me to the edge and pulling me back. Frustration and pleasure tangled into a toxic cocktail in my veins. "Tell me who you belong to," he whispered against my ear, his teeth grazing my earlobe. "Say it, fuck." "Yours," I sobbed, my sanity fracturing, my nails digging into the scars on his back. "Yours, Dante." Only then did he let me shatter, holding me tightly as the waves of pleasure tore through me, leaving me breathless and completely wrecked. When he finally released me and headed to the shower, my legs barely held my weight. The sound of the water hitting the glass stall was the only noise in the room. I needed to move. The flash drive. The contract in the office safe. If I didn't get out of this mansion in the next ten minutes, I never would. I wrapped myself in his silk robe—it smelled intoxicatingly of him—and slipped out of the bedroom on bare feet. The hallway was drowned in shadows. His office was at the far end of the hall. My breathing was erratic. My heart hammered so hard against my ribs I was terrified he could hear it over the water. I pushed open the heavy oak door. The office was immaculate, smelling of aged leather and expensive cigars. I knew the safe was hidden behind the abstract painting on the wall. But as I stepped closer, my elbow clipped a dark wooden cigar box resting on the mahogany desk. The lid, barely closed, gave way. There were no cigars inside. The contents of the box spilled across the desk like a deck of cursed cards. Photographs. Dozens of photographs of me. My blood ran ice cold. Me in college, laughing with friends. Me buying coffee, dark circles of exhaustion under my eyes. Me crying in the hospital parking lot, holding my sister's frail hand. Me on a rainy day, without an umbrella. Me sleeping on the couch in my own apartment. The invasion was so deep, so meticulous, that I couldn't draw breath. "What..." My voice failed, reduced to a trembling whisper. At the bottom of the box lay a brown envelope. My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped it. Inside was a contract. The exact same contract Dante's "rival" had handed me at the bar, paying me to spy on him. But the name at the top wasn't the rival's. It was Dante Moretti. And the signature at the bottom... the aggressive, slanted handwriting was unmistakable. It was the same signature I had just seen on the documents on his desk. He hadn't hired me. He had orchestrated everything. The sound of the shower stopped. The silence that followed was deafening. "I told you you were a terrible liar, Maya." I froze. The office door was wide open, and Dante was leaning against the frame. He was completely dry, wearing only a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants, his bare chest displaying the jagged scars and the tribal tattoo that crawled up his arm. He didn't look surprised. He was smiling. That exact same victorious smile. "How long?" I asked, my voice raw, my eyes locked on the pile of photos. "How long have you been watching me?" He took a step forward, his gray eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Since the day you walked onto that college campus. Five years." He picked up one of the photos from the desk, stroking my printed face with his thumb in a gesture of terrifying reverence. "And now, gattina," he whispered, the smile vanishing, replaced by a dark, consuming hunger. "Now you are mine."