Page 134 of Fallen Omega

Twenty-Eight

Knight

Over the next few hours, the number of times I curse Dante, then her, then myself, is either amazing in its excessiveness or its moderation.

I’m honestly not sure which.

Cursing Liz is different to cursing the prick known as Dante. I flick to another screen and look at the code, then lean back, keyboard on my thigh. I curse her because her shame and guilt brings out the urge to punish her like a caring Daddy Dom would.

Except I don’t really like punishment over that kind of shame and guilt. The kind she shouldn’t have.

The kind I’m betting was put there by King fucking Dante himself.

I curse myself for both denying myself the sweet, easy spoils of the moment tonight—what is this noble fucking thing in me all of a sudden? —and actually wanting her when I knew, and still know, she’s easy pickings.

If I went and knocked and announced it was me?

She’d open the door.

She’d open her pretty thighs.

She’d give herself over to me and pleasure and I’d willingly take that virginity.

It’s mine, anyway. I know it. Can feel it. Taste it in the air.

I used to collect them when I was going through a phase. Not for a while now, but I remember the thrill of being the first inside a virgin, the first dick penetrating her, owning her, the thrill of teaching, honing, and creating a girl for me.

Of course, when a woman was molded for me, by me, into the perfect plaything, I lost interest.

Now I prefer the game, the play, the woman who can pretend to be the virgin by being my dirty, filthy whore, giving her fantasies to me to explore with her. I like it when they act out so I can customize a punishment.

I still like virgins. I still love being first.

And Liz…

She’s different. She’s all the things I crave and more. And I don’t think she’d ever bore me.

Fuck. I put down the keyboard and log out. I’ll work tomorrow. It’s the early hours of the morning now and Pandora’s is closed for business. It’s not a night for the afterhours crowd. We change that up, partly to keep it interesting and partly to keep the cops on their toes.

I stretch, pick up the bottle of wine I got and take a slug from the neck. I need something stronger, I think, so I head on up to the club. It’s easier than raiding the wet bar that’s down here in the living room where impromptu meetings are held.

Not with outsiders; they don’t know about this part of Pandora’s.

Which makes me falter over Liz.

I know why I’d have her here, even without the mark. But Dante?

Shit, I trust the man, but sometimes the dude is complicated. And probably takes his denial bullshit into areasthat have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with feelings, if you ask me.

No one does, of course, but in all the time I’ve known him, this is the closest to emotional I’ve seen him. Dante holds his shit close to the bone. Some might say under lock and key. I don’t know about that. He’s complicated, just not stone-cold like Reaper.

Reaper might have layers of ice that keeps his deadly nature in place, but the man’s deep. Untapped. He doesn’t give much away.

He doesn’t do what Dante did tonight.

Reaper kills. Brutally. Sadistically. With intent. But not with his control switch off.

Dante…fuck, I’m so mad at him I can barely see straight. He didn’t need to treat her like a whore. Like one of his kinky-ass, fucked up women who like the hurt, the treatment, who crave his punishments and denial jive.

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