Page 5 of Ruthless Desire

My orgasm slams into me like a fucking freight train, boiling up from my balls and exploding through my veins in a scalding flood. I roar her name as I paint my fist and the floor with thick, ropey spurts of cum, marking my territory like the beast I am.

But even as I shudder through the aftershocks, even as the last pearly drops ooze between my fingers... I need to carve my name into her ivory skin with tongue and teeth, with punishing thrusts and brutal, biting kisses. Until she can't draw a fucking breath without aching for my touch, for the dark ecstasy only I can give her.

I know it's not enough. It'll never be enough until I've shattered her sanity and devoured the broken pieces.

Until I become the god of her torment and the demon of her darkest fucking dreams. Not until she can't take a breath, can't form a thought, without whispering my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

I tuck myself away with shaking hands, my skin flushed and my eyes fever-bright in the wavering light. A chuckle bubbles up from my chest, dark and rich and brimming with mania.

Oh, my raven-haired beauty. My twisted fucking Galatea, just waiting for her Pygmalion to bring her to brutal, shattering life.

You have no idea what you've awakened in me. What dark hungers and depraved compulsions are baying at the threshold of my unhinged mind.

But soon, my darling girl... soon you'll learn. Soon you'll know the sweet sting of my eternal devotion, the raw ecstasy of my psychotic fucking obsession.

Soon, you'll be mine. And not even the Devil himself will save you from the monster you've drawn from the shadows.

Sleep tight, my Natalie. Dream deep and dark and plagued with omens.

Because your reckoning is coming. And its name is Dante Corleone.

***

The days blur into weeks, but my obsession only grows, a cancer devouring me from the inside out. I should be focused on the empire I’ve built, the rivers of blood I’ve spilled to sit on this throne. But all I can see is her.

My twisted little paintbrush, flitting through the streets of New York like she’s not being hunted. Like she doesn’t already belong to me, body and soul.

I’ve got eyes on her 24/7 now, a phalanx of goons tracking her every move. They send me live feeds, photos, snippets of audio. It’s never enough. I need to mainline her, shoot her up like the drug she is.

In the middle of a tense negotiation with the Colombians, I find my eyes drawn to the screen of my burner phone. There she is, sipping coffee at some trendy little café. Laughing at something the waiter says, her head thrown back in abandon.

My vision bleeds red. How dare that pissant make her smile like that? Doesn’t he know those lips belong to me?

I excuse myself abruptly, Alonzo scrambling to smooth things over as I stalk out. But I don’t give a fuck about the Colombians right now. All I care about is the jagged blade of jealousy carving me up from the inside.

In the back of my Escalade, I bark orders into the phone. “Find out who that fucker is. I want his name, his address, and his social security number. Everything.”

My leg bounces as I refresh the feed over and over. Watching as she leaves the café, hips swaying like a siren’s call. I’ll be damned if I let her lure anyone else to their doom.

The information comes through within the hour. Alonzo’s got his uses. I scan the waiter’s paltry life story, lip curled in disgust. Justin Thatcher. What the fuck kind of name is that?

Well, Justin Thatcher, you just signed your death warrant. Nobody touches what belongs to Dante Corleone. Nobody.

I’m in a foul mood by the time I get to the warehouse. The stink of fear is thick as I stride in, blood already singing for violence. They’ve got him stripped to his pissed-stained boxers, chains biting into his scrawny limbs.

“Please,” he blubbers when he sees me, his face a mess of snot and tears. “I don’t know what you want. I don’t have any money. I’m just a waiter, I swear to god!”

I crouch down, grabbing his chin hard enough to leave bruises. “But you gave my girl something more valuable than money today, didn’t you, Justin?” I squeeze until he whimpers. “You. Made. Her. Smile.”

Comprehension dawns in his eyes a second before I smash my fist into his nose. The crunch of cartilage is like music to my ears, a prelude to the symphony of suffering I’m about to compose.

“Natalie?” he croaks through a mouthful of blood. “I was just being friendly, I swear. I had no idea she was your - "

Another gut punch shuts him up. “You had no idea,” I mock, “because you’re too fucking stupid to know your place.”

“Look, I don’t even know who you are man!” Justin bellows brokenly.

I straighten up, loosening my tie. “Well, let me make it crystal clear for you.” I grind my heel into his face, relishing his gurgling screams. “Natalie Quinn is mine. Anyone who touches her, looks at her, even thinks about her? They answer to me.”

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