Page 30 of Obsession & Oath

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In the cold light of day, I’m willing to admit that my actions last night were, perhaps, not becoming of a virtuous Cartel debutant.

However, I rationalize that my father would, at least, approve of me taking the initiative to conduct a prison escape.

I pace the fifty-two steps of my cell’s width.

Who am I kidding? If Amos Rubio found out I was doing this, he would probably leave me here.

I try not to think about it.

But thinking about my father is a wonderful anaphrodisiac. And not thinking about my father means that I’m thinking about.

Well.

The tension throbbing between my legs…it hasn’t settled since I heard the door slam closed and no matter how hard I tried with my new instructions, I couldn’t top the arousal I felt when I knew Dante was watching.

“Look at me.”

I groan as I turn on my heel and walk back the other fifty-two steps.

No one told me how difficult it would be to think straight. I consider myself to be a very rational person, but now I’m not entirely sure I trust myself to doanything.

Especially when I spent a good twenty minutes debating the pros and cons of just rutting against my pillow like a horny teenager, I’ve decided to blame all of it on twenty-four years of built-up frustration.

I fear I need an outlet, or else I may never think clearly again.

The problem is that there’s only one outlet I really want. And I’m not entirely sure Dante will show his face tonight. He left so quickly and under such…unprecedented circumstances…

I resign myself to a day of internal suffering.

Thankfully, I hear the door open a moment later, and with it, comes the scent of freshly baked pastries. Flirting with Pierre seems like a perfect temporary reprieve.

“You know, Pierre, if I keep meeting you down here, I’m going to get the wrong impression,” I say as sultry as I can, knowing his cheeks will be bright pink by the time he drops off my breakfast.

“Oh, that poor man.”

I turn in alarm to find Dante standing there instead.

He seems to have recovered somewhat since yesterday. Clothes fresh, easy demeanor, cocky little smirk—a far cry from the man straining to instruct me tomassage my chest.

I regain composure quickly. “You’re back.”

“I’m back,” he confirms, watching me almost as closely as I him.

I narrow my eyes. “I’m not offering a repeat performance.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

But I notice the flicker of interest in his eyes before he regains control of himself. “I’m here to apologize,” he continues.

“Apologize.”

“You see, I was quite drunk last night.”

“You were quite drunk.”

“Is there a parrot in here?”

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