Page 6 of In His Name

I hesitate only a moment—a moment too long for his liking. His expression darkens.

"Don't make me ask twice."

Slowly, I part my legs, the hem of my dress inching higher on my thighs. The air between us feels charged, electric with something beyond the usual power dynamics of captor and captive.

Dante moves with predatory grace, settling between my thighs, his hands pushing the dress higher until it bunchesaround my waist. His eyes never leave mine as he hooks his fingers into the delicate underwear he'd selected for me this morning and tears it away with one sharp motion.

"So beautiful," he whispers, and for the first time, I don't look away from the naked hunger in his gaze. "My Hannah."

When his mouth descends, I can't stop the gasp that escapes me. His tongue traces patterns that my body has learned to recognize and crave despite my mind's resistance. I grip the comforter beneath me, anchoring myself against the sensations threatening to sweep me away.

"Let go," he commands against my most sensitive flesh, the vibration of his words sending shockwaves through me. "Stop fighting what your body wants."

His hands grip my thighs, holding me open and exposed as his tongue delves deeper, more insistent. I feel myself responding, hips rising to meet his mouth, a betrayal of flesh that my mind cannot control. Tears spring to my eyes—not from pain but from the terrible knowledge that he's right. My body has become an instrument he plays with expert precision, regardless of my will.

"Please," I hear myself whisper, unsure if I'm begging him to stop or continue. The word hangs between us, an admission he seizes like a trophy.

Dante lifts his head slightly, his lips glistening in the dim light. "Please what, Hannah? Tell me what you want."

My mind races, caught between strategic submission and genuine desire. This is the dangerous line I've been walking, the knife's edge between pretense and truth. When did the performance begin to feel real?

"I want..." The words catch in my throat. What do I want? Freedom? Escape? Or simply the release his touch promises? "I want to stop thinking," I finally whisper, a truth that surprises even me.

Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, perhaps, or something deeper. "I can give you that," he says, his voice rough with desire. "I can take away all those thoughts that torment you."

He moves up my body, positioning himself above me, still fully clothed while I lie exposed beneath him. The power imbalance is deliberate, another reminder of who controls this relationship. His hand cradles my face with unexpected gentleness.

"You're beginning to understand, aren't you?" His thumb traces my lower lip. "Fighting me only hurts you. Accepting what we are brings peace."

I don't answer, but I don't look away either. This is new territory—neither complete defiance nor total surrender, but something in between. A negotiated space where perhaps I can survive with some part of myself intact.

Dante unbuttons his shirt with deliberate slowness, revealing the tattooed skin beneath. My name stands out among the intricate designs—Hannah, written over his heart in elaborate script. A matching brand to the one he placed on my hip.

"From the moment I saw you," he says, shrugging off his shirt, "I knew you were mine. Not just to possess, but to complete." His hands move to his belt. "Everything I've done has been to bring you to this moment of understanding."

When he enters me, I bite back a moan. My body welcomes him traitorously, while my mind catalogues every sensation with clinical detachment. This is survival, I remind myself. This is adaptation.

"Look at me," he commands, stilling his movements until I comply. When our eyes meet, he begins to move again, each thrust deliberate and measured. "Feel how perfectly your body grips mine. Tell me who you belong to."

The words he wants to hear hover on my lips. In the past, I'd have remained silent or spat defiance. Today, I calculate differently.

"You," I whisper, watching his pupils dilate with satisfaction. "I belong to you, Dante."

His rhythm falters momentarily, overcome by my unexpected submission. Then he growls, his movements becoming more intense, more demanding.

"Again," he orders, one hand gripping my hip where his name marks my skin.

"I'm yours." The words come easier this time, sliding from my tongue like practiced lines in a play. And yet, as my body responds to his, arching to meet each thrust, I wonder if they're becoming more than just words.

When release claims me, it's powerful enough to blur the boundaries I've tried so hard to maintain—between calculation and genuine feeling, between strategic compliance and true surrender. I cry out, my body convulsing around him, my hands clutching at his shoulders not to push him away but to pull him closer.

Dante follows moments later, his face buried in my neck as he shudders against me, inside me, my name a litany on his lips. For a few suspended seconds, we breathe together, hearts racing in chaotic synchrony.

Then reality reasserts itself in layers—the weight of his body on mine, the cooling sweat on my skin, the gradual return of my rational mind. I feel his lips curve into a smile against my throat.

"Mine," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my pulse point before lifting himself to look into my eyes. His expression holds a satisfaction that goes beyond physical release—the satisfaction of a man who believes he's witnessing the crumbling of final resistances.

Is he right? The question haunts me as he rolls to his side, taking me with him, arranging my body against his with possessive precision. His fingers trace idle patterns on my bare skin, each touch a reminder of ownership.

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