Page 62 of Ivory Crown

He straightened his tie again with meticulous care, the picture of composure and authority. “Have a good day, Jade,” he said. “I know you might be worried about getting thirsty or hungry or whatever…but with what I’m going to do to you today, all you’ll be able to think about is coming.”

Then, without another word or backward glance, he strode out, leaving me alone with my erratic breathing and the relentless thrumming of the machine between my legs.

I fought against the mounting pleasure, a futile battle waged within the confines of my own body. My cries of protest, once sharp and indignant, began to wane as the waves of sensation grew too powerful, too insistent. They morphed slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, into moans of ecstasy that I couldn’t suppress, no matter how hard I tried.

As the minutes turned into hours, the machine thrummed on, incessant and unyielding. My mind reeled, tumbling between resistance and surrender. Dante’s wicked punishment had started to feel eerily similar to a reward as I writhed against the satin sheets, caught in an endless cycle of pleasure and denial.

Dante.

His name curled around my thoughts, a seductive whisper threaded with potent desire. I craved his touch, his dominance; his power over me fueled a burning need that I had never known before. Even as I fought against it, my body betrayed me, arching into the relentless pulses of the device.

Fear coiled tight in my stomach at the realization. I was losing myself in him, teetering on a precipice that was both terrifying and intoxicating. Was this what Dante intended? For me to submit so entirely to his control?

As if to answer my unsaid question, the vibration shifted – intensifying suddenly and setting off a new wave of pleasure that stole my breath away.

I lost track of time, lost myself in the waves of pleasure and frustration. There were moments when I almost gave in, when the unmet need was so overwhelming that release seemed like the only salvation. But each time I teetered on the brink, Dante would shift the rhythm again and pull me back from the edge.

It was torture and temptation rolled into one, expertly administered by a man who knew exactly what he was doing. My mind was a haze of need and anticipation. The room echoed with my ragged breaths and whimpers; the only other sound was the relentless hum of the device Dante had left unrelenting between my legs.

Desperate for relief, I found myself begging him silently, every pulse of the machine melding into a silent plea: Dante, Dante, Dante...

This…whatever he was doing to me…it was working.

And I had been a fool to try to escape.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Dante

Ikilled the engine and my breath fogged up the windshield, a brief shroud over the view of the old terracotta façade. Little Italy was waking up; the scent of bread from the corner bakery clawed at some distant part of me that could almost savor it. But not today. Today, the familiar tune of an accordion player down the street sounded like a dirge. My fingers clenched into fists as I stepped out onto the curb, eyes scanning for my father’s car. It wasn’t there. That set off alarm bells in my head louder than the church’s morning call.

“Ma?” I called out, voice more strained than I liked as I spotted her on the stoop, the lines of worry on her face deepening. “What are you doing outside?”

She was a small woman, my mother, but she held herself with a sort of quiet strength that had seen our family through the darkest times. “Sweeping,” she said, looking at the broom as if I had just asked her the dumbest question ever. “The leaves…”

“Right.”

“Dante? What’s wrong? Why are you here without calling?”

Now though, as she looked up at me, all I saw was confusion—fear, maybe—sketched across her features.

“Ma, listen,” I started, my voice rough around the edges as I climbed the steps to her. “It’s Marco...he’s been shot.”

The color bled from her cheeks, her hand flying to her mouth like she could hold back the gasp that escaped. I caught her before she could sway, her petite frame trembling under my hands.

“Is he—“

“Alive. Stable,” I cut in quickly, not wanting her mind to wander to those dark places. “He made it through the night, Ma.”

“When?” Her voice barely rose above the hum of the city, but it cut right through me.

“Last night,” I replied, watching as she absorbed the blow. “We need to go to him.”

“Where is he?”

“Hospital, not far from here,” I said. “He’s—he’s fine, Ma. I promise.”

“Ma, we need to get to the hospital,” I said, guiding her gently toward the sleek black car parked at the curb.

She slid into the passenger seat without protest, but as soon as I started the engine, the dam broke. Her tears were silent, a river of pain carving through the stoic facade she wore like armor. Her hands twisted in her lap, knotted and clenched as if she could squeeze out some sense from the situation.

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