Page 125 of Fallen Omega

“I’m not?—”

“I said do it, Angel. There are rules, remember? Show me a good lap dance.” I take her face in my hand and push her into the door. “So fucking help me. Just dance or I’ll fuck you here and now so hard you won’t be able to walk. I’ll fucking rut the shit out of you, Angel. Knot you. And you know you want that, don’t you? You’re aching for it, slicking up for it.”

“Dante, please.”

I lick her throat, and I’m close, fucking close to sinking my teeth into her, drawing blood, making her mine in the most elemental way. I shove her away and turn.

“You broke my fucking rules, so you’ll learn how to fucking lap dance properly. Who knows?” I narrow my eyes at her. “I might even rent you out.”

Thing is, she looks at me, feeding the darkness in me. Because her face, her body, the way she breathes, the way her scent fucking blooms, it tells me she’s turned on.

She’s fucking waiting to be sullied, destroyed, to be turned into something else, something that I can take down into the depths.

I pull my chair out in front of my desk and sit. “Show me, Angel.”

She reels.

“Behind you on my desk is my phone. Press play.” I’m not in the mood to explain how it works in the private rooms.

She’s not going near one again. Not unless it’s with me. And, if I let the other two live, they can join in, too.

Slow, sensuous music fills the room.

“Move your hips, casual, as the music moves through you, Angel.”

She does, jerky at first, but when she turns to look at me, I speak again. “Move.”

I’m fucking perverse. I know it. Because I want to teach her how to lap dance, how to make money from a man. How to, if she wants, decide how she’ll take it further for more money.

Even though there’s no scenario that doesn’t end up bloodier than the one upstairs if she so much as thinks of setting foot in a private room with a man who’s not me. Or Reaper. Or Knight. If I don’t murder them, too. I probably won’t. But anyone else?

I will tear them into pieces.

I want to bring her down, degrade her, see how far I can go, see how much she likes it.

Punishment without the whips and chains. Or the wax. Then again, there are all kinds of punishments. This is one, and she looks fucking amazing doing my bidding.

“No. Don’t look at your mark. Not yet. Don’t speak to him, make him wait, sweat, wonder if you forgot him. Stretch it out. Deny him the thing he wants, because he’ll want it a whole lot more.”

Denial. My language, and she can speak it. I see it as she stills and listens to me, and then she moves, just looking at the wall, touching the covering, and the pull on my senses and dick is real.

I’m not lulled or soothed. If anything, she hooks into a darker piece of me. There’s the rage and there’s the desires that drip with blood. I want this. The torture. Her moves that wrap around me like her scent and test my limits.

She’s getting into it now, and my hunger grows. Control slips.

As the music moves through her, she rolls her hips, her ass shifts a little, side to side. She pulls her ponytail, loosening it, just a little.

I think she was going to release it and changed her mind, but it gives her a just fucked look and it’s mind blowing.

She swirls to the side and her nipples are hard, then she turns back and does something with her top.

Oh fucking hell, she’s rolling it up, her back’s exposed a little more inch by inch.

“When you’re ready, when the moment feels like it’s going to break, wait a beat, and then glance over.”

My voice is rough and her whole being vibrates in response. The room’s filled with us, the scent we make together, that sex thing that’s beyond addictive, something I’ve experienced exactly once before. But not like this.

There’s nothing like this. No one like Lizette.

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