Page 39 of Unhinged Little Angel

Dante sputters, the muscles of his throat constricting around me. Blinding pleasure rushes through me at the tightness, the fluttering spasm as he tries to adjust to my cock filling his throat. I pull back out and his lipstick smears down the wet length. His nostrils flare and he meets my eyes, his eyelashes damp with tears. His glare stays in place another few seconds, the tip of my cock resting on his tongue, and then he lets out a shuddering breath. The tension he’s been holding on to—always ready for a fight, his hackles always up—melts away.

“Good, Angel,” I praise him again, hoping he can hear the satisfaction and pride filling my chest and seeping into the dark, cracked parts of my soul that I always knew Dante could fill. “It’s okay to like it. It’s okay to feel good,” I murmur, thrusting between his lips again, savoring the drag of them over my length and the hot, wet pleasure of his throat engulfing me over and over.

He’s not pretending to fight anymore. His hands groping, hips twitching, his eyes pleading, staying latched onto mine as I fuck his mouth harder and faster.

I’m not worried about the time limit, but the urgency is part of the thrill. Someone could knock on the door at any minute, demanding to know where Dante is. All they would hear are his muffled, gagging moans and my panting as I watch my cock slide in and out of his pretty mouth.

“Touch your cock,” I growl. “Let me see.”

He whines around my next thrust, lifting his hips off the couch and wiggling his tights and underwear down just enough for his hard, flushed cock to spring free.

“Time’s almost up, Angel,” I warn, filling his throat again and again, my balls tight and aching, insistent, eager heat pooling in my gut. “Hurry up and make yourself come, or you’ll be suffering with blue balls until the end of your shift.”

The echo of his earlier taunt earns me a glare that only lasts a fraction of a second before I thrust deep again and his eyes roll back as he wraps his hand around his cock like I told him to. He strokes himself fast, the muffled moans around my cock getting deeper and longer, tears flowing freely down his cheeks and lipstick colored spit staining his chin, his hips lifting off the couch in desperate, unrhythmic thrusts.

“Dante,” I groan, slamming my hips against his face one more time and burying my cock deep in his throat. The choked, body racking sob he lets out as my cock swells and my orgasm explodes through me might be my new favorite sound. Or maybe it’s the strangled moan that accompanies the ropes of his cum splattering across that pretty corset of his, his eyes wide and his whole body shaking as he swallows down the endless volleys of my release and then laps at my slit like he’s afraid to miss a drop.

“Angel,” I sigh, cupping his chin and easing out of his mouth when I’m too sensitive to let him lick and suck my softening cock anymore. A trickle of spit and cum dribbles from the corner of his ruined lips and dark streaks of mascara stain his cheeks. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

He blinks, stunned for a second, then shakes his head. “I… um… should get back to work.”

He seems dazed, his hands shaking as he stuffs his spent cock away and looks down at the streaks of cum on his corset.

“Hold on,” I say firmly, tucking my own cock away and sitting down on the couch next to him.

“I have to—” he starts to say again.

I grab his bicep and tug him down before he can go anywhere. He squirms and fights me for a second before giving in and sinking against me.

“There. Just relax. They won’t miss you for five more minutes.” I stroke my fingers along the curve of his shoulder, up and down in a soothing motion, and reach into my pocket with my free hand.

I’ve always found the concept of a handkerchief outdated and, frankly, disgusting. But sometimes it goes with my suit, and I’m not about to argue with style. I pull out the unused handkerchief and tilt Dante’s face up so I can get a better look at the mess I made. A possessive growl rumbles in my throat as I wipe the lipstick off of his chin.

His lips twist into a smile.

“You’re such a fucking caveman,” he mutters, tilting his chin up a little more to give me better access.

“And you’re a fucking brat,” I say with grin.

“Are you staying until the end of my shift?” he asks, holding still while I dab the smeared mascara off of his cheeks.

“What do you think, Angioletto?”

Chapter 17

DANTE

I press my fingertips into the mouth shaped bruise on my collarbone and shiver. A week’s worth of filthy memories assault my brain and make my skin feel too hot and tight stretched over my body. I’m still having mixed feelings about my choices, about the ring on my finger and using the Moretti name as a shield instead of facing all this down by myself, but it’s getting easier and easier to convince myself that Salvatore was right. The smartest fighters use whatever tools are available to win, and that’s what I did.

Whoever was following me for Don hasn’t had the guts to make any more moves, so I guess my plan is working. Salvatore has even had people keeping an eye on my apartment in case they come back. Not gonna lie, I was hoping they’d be dumb enough to do it. At least that would be one less person to worry about, and with Don’s release date creeping closer, I could use the win.

And if I enjoy the perks of this marriage in the meantime, there’s no harm in that, right?

I stop prodding the bruise and turn on the sink to splash some cold water on my face. The faint smell of coffee tickles my nose as soon as I step out of the bedroom. As annoying as having Luca as my constant shadow is, the man brews a damn good cup of coffee. If he ever decides to leave the Mafia and go legit, he has a real future as a barista.

I’m focused on my mission, not even glancing towards the living room as I shuffle into the kitchen. I hate that the marble countertops and all the stainless steel are starting to feel more comfortable and homey. I’ll never be able to afford an apartment like this myself unless I start actually being nice to the grabby perverts at Wild, so getting used to it is only going to make me resent my own apartment later. I’m already starting to think my ceilings are too low now I’ve spent a week here.

I grab a mug out of the cupboard. Luca is really slacking this morning. Usually, there’s a cup already made for me by the time I drag my zombie ass into the kitchen, but today he couldn’t even be bothered to get a mug out for me? Maybe I said something to offend him. I think back over all of our interactions this week. I called him an overeager puppy, threatened him with bodily harm if he didn’t back up a few inches to give me some fucking space, and never missed a chance to make a bodyguard joke… I can’t see where any of that would cause him to revoke my barista privileges.

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