Addiction & Surrender

Dante's Retaliation

Wrong Game

Dante always knew when I was slipping.

When my attention frayed, when my pulse tangled with someone else’s name.

I didn’t need to tell him.

He felt it.

The same way I felt him when he was with someone else.

I don’t answer his last three texts.

I don’t return his calls.

I think maybe I’ve finally put him behind me.

But Dante doesn’t leave quietly.

It starts with the flowers.

Blood-red roses dropped on my desk—no note.

Just a familiar scent, sharp and sweet, laced with the weight of him.

Then the voicemail:

“Wrong game, baby. You don’t get to run. You don’t get to hide. You’re mine.”

I delete it.

Pretend I’m not shaking.

I tell myself the boss owns me now. That I’ve chosen. That Dante is just the ghost I’ve finally outgrown.

But when I leave the office that night—he’s waiting.

Leaning against my car, leather jacket, black jeans, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, looking like every bad decision I’ve ever crawled back to.

I freeze, heart lurching.

His mouth curls into that wicked, knowing smile.

“Took you long enough.”

His voice still owns me.

Low. Rough. Intimate. Like he never really let me go.

I brace, steeling myself.

“I’m done with you, Dante.”

“No, you’re not.”

He flicks the cigarette to the pavement, crushing it beneath his boot.

“You’ve been busy,” he drawls, his gaze dragging over me like he already knows. “But he’s not me.”

I move to step around him.

He blocks me.

Not touching—just taking up space, stealing the air.

“Get out of my way.”

His hand slams against the car door beside my head, caging me in. His body doesn’t touch mine—but the heat of him sears through me.

“You let him touch you?” His breath brushes my ear, venom-sweet. “You let him think he owns you?”

I swallow hard, refusing to fold.

“I’m allowed to move on.”

His laugh is dark, dangerous.

“You don’t move on from me. I burned myself into you.”

I push at his chest. He doesn’t budge.

“Move.”

His other hand slides to my throat—not squeezing, just holding, his thumb stroking under my jaw like I’m his favorite, broken thing.

“You feel him,” he murmurs, “but you still ache for me.”

I hate that he’s right.

Hate that my pulse stutters beneath his palm.

“Say you don’t want me.” His grip tightens just enough to make me gasp.

“Say it, Val. And I’ll walk away.”

I stare him down, my lips trembling with the weight of the lie.

“Say. It.”

I can’t.

I don’t.

Because I want him.

I always f*****g want him.

And he knows.

His mouth crashes into mine—violent, punishing, claiming.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s Dante.

It’s desperate. Obsessive. Possessive.

When I moan, he drags me closer, his thigh forcing between mine, his kiss bruising and rough.

“You think you can give yourself to someone else,” he growls against my lips, “but you belong to me.”

His hands grip my hips, dragging me against him, his control long gone.

But this time—this time—I push back.

I shove him, hard enough to make him stumble.

His eyes flicker—shock, then fire.

I wipe my mouth slowly, deliberately.

“That’s not your choice anymore.”

For the first time, he hesitates.

For the first time, I see the fracture—the fear he’ll actually lose me.

I walk away.

I don’t run.

I don’t look back.

But I feel him watching me like I’ve just started a war.

⸻

Julian Cracks

That night, I get the text I never expected.

Boss: Open the door. NOW!

Not a request. A demand.

“You saw him,” he says, not a question.

“And if I did?”

His jaw is set, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

There’s something different in his eyes tonight—something sharp, dangerous, unhinged.

He knows.

He feels Dante pressing in around the edges.

And he’s done pretending to be patient.

“Did you see him Val?.” His voice is ice over fire.

“I told him to leave.”

His eyes flick over me, assessing, not believing.

“You kissed him.”

I swallow, but I don’t deny it.

I don’t lie to him.

“Are you still his?” His words are low, almost a growl.

“I don’t know what I am.”

His body cages me, his palm flat against the wall beside my hip.

“I do,” he breathes, dragging his mouth along my jaw, not kissing—claiming.

“You’re mine.”

He walks around me with that same quiet dominance but the weight behind it is different this time—less game, more need.

“I told myself I wouldn’t chase you.”

His hands find my hips, firm, anchoring me in place.

“I thought I could wait you out. But he’s not going to play by those rules.”

His fingers curl tighter. His mouth is close enough I can feel the words against my lips.

“I’m not losing you to him. Not even for a second.”

I push back, testing him, forcing him to fight for it.

“Is that what this is? Territory?”

His lips brush the corner of my mouth—not a kiss, not yet—just a cruel, aching tease.

“No,” he breathes, “this is surrender.”

And then—for the first time—he chases.

His mouth claims mine, slow but sure, like he’s waited too long to pretend anymore.

Like he’s finally willing to break his own rules to keep me.

And maybe that’s what shatters me the most.

Not that he’s chasing—

But that I want him to.

The air between us crackles, too thick with everything we haven’t said.

Everything we’ve done.

His hand slides to my throat, tilting my chin up until our eyes lock, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse beneath my skin.

“Say it.”

His voice leaves no room for negotiation.

“Say you’re mine.”

My lips part, defiant.

I won’t give it easily.

I want to make him work for it.

I bite my bottom lip, watching his restraint fracture—watching the man who’s always been so controlled start to burn for me.

“You want me to say it?” I whisper, daring.

“Make me.”

His eyes go black.

His mouth crashes into mine—violent, consuming, obliterating the space between us.

His hands are everywhere—pulling, gripping, tearing at my clothes like he’s waited too long to have this.

But I won’t break first.

When he rips open my blouse, I push him back hard, shoving him into the couch, forcing him to sit.

“You don’t get to take without giving,” I tell him, sliding onto his lap, straddling him, gripping his tie like a leash.

“You want me? You submit first.”

His breath hitches, the war flashing across his face.

I don’t move.

I don’t beg.

I wait.

Slowly, he tips his head back, baring his throat.

His hands drop beside me, his body going still under mine—a quiet, deliberate surrender.

“I’m yours,” he breathes.

The confession slices through the air, ragged and raw.

I drag his tie tighter, pulling him to me, crashing my mouth over his.

No declarations.

No dramatic turn.

Just the moment his eyes met mine and waited. Open. Willing. Asking.

I took him to my room.

“Lie down,” I said.

He obeyed instantly, the tension in his arms not from fear—but from anticipation.

I straddled his thighs, tying his wrists to the headboard with smooth, practiced knots.

Not too tight. Just enough to own his stillness.

His breathing shifted.

Faster. Shallower.

But he said nothing—he trusted me.

I let my nails drag down his chest, watching his muscles jump under my touch.

And then I leaned in.

Took him in my mouth—slowly—just the tip, at first.

Teasing. Torturing.

His hips twitched, but the restraints held.

He groaned my name like a prayer swallowed by heat.

“You don’t get to move,” I murmured against him.

“You just feel.”

I took him deeper this time, choking slightly—intentionally—as I pressed down until my lips kissed his base.

His head fell back, breath shattered.

His hands gripped the ropes, wanting to touch me, but helpless.

When I pulled off, saliva glistening on my lips, I stood slowly, stripping piece by piece.

Then I settled on the edge of the bed, fingers sliding between my thighs as he watched.

“You like that?” I asked softly.

“Watching what you can’t touch?”

He nodded, breathless.

I didn’t stop until I was moaning his name—my body writhing, glistening, radiant with control.

Then, slowly, I climbed on top of him—untied just one wrist, enough for him to anchor me but not lead.

“Now,” I whispered, lowering myself onto him.

It was primal.

Sacred.

Slow and consuming.

Each thrust drove us closer to the edge, but I kept control—rolling my hips until his eyes rolled back and I felt him begin to lose it.

“With me,” I demanded, hand against his chest.

And we came together—him gasping my name, me clawing down his chest—our bodies shaking as one.

We collapsed—him loose and spent beneath me, and me folded over him, kissing his lips softly.

He groans into the kiss, his hands twitching but not moving, waiting for permission.

When I finally release him, his control shatters.

His arms snap around me, flipping me beneath him in one brutal, fluid motion.

His weight pins me to the bed, his body pressing me open, claiming every inch of me.

His mouth is on my throat, my collarbone, dragging his teeth across my skin like he’s marking me from the inside out.

He's already hard again. Throbbing for me.

“You think you can own me?” he growls, pushing inside me in one desperate, aching thrust.

“I already own you.”

The stretch burns, brutal and perfect, his pace unforgiving, each thrust a violent declaration.

But I don’t fold.

I arch into him, meeting every snap of his hips, every ragged breath.

His hand wraps around my throat again, squeezing just enough to tip me over the edge of breathlessness.

"You are so wet for me baby"

“Say it,” he demands, his voice wrecked.

“Say you’re mine.”

I choke on the words, pleasure fracturing through me, my body betraying me.

When I don’t speak, he slams deeper, harder, dragging his free hand between us to press his thumb against me—tight, unrelenting circles until I’m gasping, writhing, trembling beneath him.

"Say it Val."

And I do.

I scream it.

“I’m yours.”

His mouth crashes into mine, swallowing the sound, the taste of it fueling his own release.

We fall apart together again —both of us undone, both of us owning and surrendering in the same breath.

When he finally lets me go, his hand lingers at my throat, his thumb still stroking that same frantic pulse.

“You don’t see him again,” he whispers.

Not a request. Not a plea.

A command.

I drag my nails down his chest, sharp enough to leave marks.

“Then make me stay.”

His smile is wicked.

“Oh, I will.”