Page 37 of Ruthless Boss

“Was it why you ordered those sex toys? Because you wanted to get the conversation started with me?”

“I ordered them because I enjoy them.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, sending me a cold smile.

He still thinks I’m calculated. I planned on a new start, yes, but getting sexually entangled with him was never an advantage.

I swallow, then stare at him. “My whole marriage, I had to hide any toys because my husband is an insecure bastard. The idea of me having pleasure was unacceptable to him. So when I left, yes, I bought a couple here and there. I also needed the distraction. So I wouldn’t think about why I left him,” I say, unsure if my words are sinking in, but I don’t have many options. Even if he won’t believe me. Even if he kills me. I need to share these things because I didn’t for so long. “Getting involved with you wasn’t my goal,” I continue. “If anything, it complicated my life.”

“Finally, we agree on something,” he says. “You complicated my life, too. Because otherwise, you’d already be dead.”

I sink my teeth into my lower lip. Is that a nugget of hope? I search his eyes, desperate for an answer, but he avoids my gaze and focuses his attention on the gun, thrusting it inside me.

It doesn’t fill me like his cock, but the idea that it’s in between my legs adds an unexpected excitement to the already tense turmoil. I don’t know what to do. He thrusts it in and out slowly, and I’m sure he notices how wet I am.

I try to be strong and ignore these urges, but my thighs part wider, and I buck into the weapon. Is he going to fire it? Is he going to kill me? Why am I not screaming? I can’t scream. I can’t run. In the same way I can’t escape my feelings.

I… I’ve fallen for Dante.

The man who has a gun buried in my pussy. That’s my life.

He could kill me at any moment, and somehow, I trust him not to.

I only hope I’m not wrong.

He maintains a quick, shallow rhythm, so fast that every time he slams the gun into my pussy, a beat later, he withdraws it and continues the same pattern. I moan, no longer caring to save face or anything else.

Pleasure builds inside me like a rocket ready to launch. A rocket that could destroy everything in its path. My body contracts in anticipation.

“Look at me,” he says in a deep, sexy voice that accepts no refusal.

I obey, and a dangerous, intense glint darkens his eyes. He moves his finger to the trigger, and I hear a click. I stop moving, my heart thrumming in all my pulsing zones. This is it. I should run, move, fight, kick him in the guts, and hope he’ll grant me one more minute of breathing. One more minute alive.

But now, in a way I can’t understand, I don’t.

I stare deep into his eyes, unaware of what kind of messages I’m sending, but completely taken. Claimed. His, even if he doesn’t want me.

He pulls the trigger. I feel the movement of his fingers against my inner walls. And I can no longer wait or hold back. Not knowing if I’m still alive or already gone, I let the pressure turn into pleasure, the uncertainty into euphoria as a wild current takes over me, and I come—the hardest I’ve ever experienced.

Sounds that are foreign to me are part of my lips. They’re loud, rough, raw moans I’ve never produced before. They suffocate every part of me that was unwanted and unholy and spit out the hope of living again to make a difference.

My heart gallops in my chest, my inner walls still clamping around the handgun that he slips out of me. Sometime during this delicious ecstasy, I closed my eyes and now open to find him positioning himself between my legs.

Blurry dots still fill my vision when he rubs the thick head of his cock at my sex. I inhale deeply, dazed after the intensity of the orgasm, in a limbo state, not quite back yet. He doesn’t care. He thrusts into me violently, all the way to the hilt, and I gasp, wrapping my legs around his back.

“Fuck,” I say, rattling my handcuffs, wishing I could run my fingers deep into his hair or scratch his shoulder blades. Because I’m tied up, my senses are heightened. I feel the rush from the blood in his dick, every minor pulse, like we’re so attuned to each other.

Our sexual organs rule us, and they don’t want to quit.

“Dante,” I whisper. “Dante,” I repeat like I’m chanting an old prayer carrying a secret that can save humanity.

He doesn’t let up and slings my legs over his shoulders, fucking me deeper, harder, faster. Grunts escape his lips, and it’s like he’s trying to end this desire we share at once—to kill it, to eliminate it forever. While I’ve come to terms with the fact that it’s not happening, he hasn’t.

Maybe he thinks if he thrusts deep into me one more time—just once, it’ll do.

I clamp my pussy around him, the sensation of my flesh being stretched to the max sending surges of aches and exhilaration through me. Soon, the signs reveal themselves to me, and I come, wishing I could wrap my arms around him, touch him, embrace him, and never let go.

A few moments later, he slides out of me and slams back in. One. Two. Three times—until his growl slices the air and he shudders, coming, filling my pussy with his hot load. He’s trembling when he slips out of me, his cock still leaking, his face flushed.

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