Dance of Deception: Chapter 26

My hands won’t stop shaking.

I press them tight against my lap as Carmine drives through the city, willing them to be still, but the tremors don’t stop.

My eyes slide toward him, sitting rigidly behind the wheel of the black Lamborghini, in utter control.

He hasn’t looked at me once since we left the bar.

But suddenly, though not hurriedly, his hand drifts to rest on my thigh—heavy, possessive, fingers curled just enough to keep me in place and stop my hands from shaking.

Blood stains his knuckles. It’s dry now, but I can still smell it.

Marcus Chen is dead. Carmine shot him. And I barely flinched.

What does that say about me?

I turn to stare out the window, my reflection barely visible in the streaks of light flashing past.

Carmine’s grip on my thigh never wavers. When we finally pull up in front of the Barone mansion, I expect him to release me. But he doesn’t, not immediately.

The engine cuts and goes quiet, and we sit there in the silence of the car, the city its usual chaos around us.

Then finally, still without a word, he steps out of the car and shuts the door behind him. I try to do the same, but there’s a missing connection between my brain and my muscles, like my body can’t receive the message to open the door and step out to move on with my life after what just happened.

Then suddenly, my door opens. The night air rushes in. And before I can even process it, Carmine is carrying me.

I don’t protest.

Don’t fight.

Just let him.

His arms are strong, comforting, one cradling my knees, the other at my back. My cheek is pressed against his bloodstained suit jacket, but I don’t pull away as he carries me up the steps past his men and into the house.

He brings me up the grand staircase without a word. He steps slowly, carefully, letting the weight of what just happened settle.

I expect him to take me to the guest room. But he doesn’t.

He walks past the room I’ve been sleeping in, and keeps walking until he opens the door to—my chest tightens—his room.

When he pushes the door open and steps inside, the weight of everything crashes down and I start to crumble. My breath shudders and my vision blurs, the adrenaline abruptly wearing off. My body goes limp, exhaustion sinking into the very marrow of my bones.

Carmine sets me down on my feet, but I can’t hold myself up—instantly, I start to fold and crumple. Before I fall, his grip tightens, catching me.

His hands clamp onto my arms almost punishingly as he guides me to his bed and sits me on the edge of it.

‘I knew he was obsessed with you, but I didn’t know it was that bad.’ His voice is quiet but dangerous, every word edged with barely contained fury. ‘I should’ve killed him the second he started uttering your name.’

I swallow hard, trying to find my footing. He doesn’t let go. His fingers tighten, forcing me to look at him, his grip unyielding.

I almost don’t want to even say it. But I do.

‘It’s not the first time he’s come and found me like that,’ I whisper.

Carmine freezes.

‘When?’ His voice is sharp, with something else in it now that I can’t place.

I force myself to keep breathing. ‘A couple times. Sometimes it was just him, trying to get ‘the story’ from me. Sometimes it was his lunatic followers.” I swallow thickly. “I…I have—had⁠—.’

It’s had, now. Past tense, since I can still see Marcus’ head evaporating in that dive bar.

“I had a restraining order against him. Which…clearly didn’t mean a thing,” I mumble bitterly.

The air between us darkens.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ His voice is quiet, but somehow it feels louder than a shout.

I let out a bitter laugh. ‘Would it have changed anything?’

Carmine’s grip tightens, his jaw flexing, his eyes dark and unrelenting.

‘You’re my wife. Everything about you fucking matters to me.’

The words knock the air from my lungs. The silence that follows is thick, suffocating, stretching between us until I can’t take it anymore.

…And then, the words spill out of me. Years of them.

I tell him about the constant harassment. The insane conspiracy theorists who call me an accomplice, saying I must have known what my father was doing.

The families of the victims who blame me, who look at me and see a monster who stole their daughters.

The “special news presentations” discussing whether or not Sophia Ferguson, my father’s final victim—the girl I saw that day the door was left ajar—was killed because I’d run screaming from the house.

I tell him how I threw myself into dancing to escape the whispers. The eyes. The weight of it all.

Then, I tell him about the doubt that festers inside me.

“What if they’re right?” My voice shakes. “What if I should have known? What if⁠—”

Carmine grabs me.

Not gently. Not carefully. Fiercely.

‘You’re fucking perfect,’ he growls.

And then his lips crash to mine, all possessive heat, like he’s trying to brand himself onto my skin, pour himself into my blood.

I don’t fight him. I don’t want to.

Because this isn’t a battle anymore, nor a war, nor a struggle for dominance. It’s surrender.

Not the kind that makes me weak or breaks me. The kind that binds.

His hands grip my face, his thumbs pressing into my jaw as he tips my head back, dragging his teeth over my lower lip.

“Every inch of you belongs to me,” he rasps raggedly. “No one else will ever touch you, or have you.”

A shiver rolls through me. It’s not fear. It’s want. A hunger that’s been building for days…weeks…maybe since the moment I first met him.

His fingers yank my hoodie over my head before his hands slide down, gripping my waist. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

The sweats I’ve got on over my tights and leotard go next as Carmine yanks them down roughly.

Then he steps back, his eyes dark as they devour me, taking in the thin fabric stretched over my body and the way my chest rises and falls with each uneven breath.

His fingers trace the straps of my leotard before hooking into them, pulling them off my shoulders.

He peels it down my body and over my breasts. The cool air kisses my skin before the heat of his gaze burns me.

He slips the leotard lower, exposing me inch by inch, his breath hitching as more of my skin is revealed. My pulse pounds with anticipation, but he doesn’t rush.

“Fucking perfect,” he growls.

I whimper when his mouth finds one of my breasts, devouring it greedily. I cry out sharply when his teeth sink into my tender nipple, sending an arresting mixture of pain and pleasure zipping through my body.

Carmine shoves my leotard and tights lower, pushing them over my hips before pulling away from my throbbing nipple and dropping to his knees in front of me.

His hands slide over my waist, my hips, my thighs, gripping, claiming. Then he drags the leotard and tights down together, inch by inch, his fingertips brushing every newly exposed part of me.

My breath stutters as I watch him bring them to my ankles and then take them off. My fingers grip his shoulders, my balance unsteady.

Carmine’s eyes slide up mine. Then he leans in, his mouth lowering between my thighs.

I stiffen, my hands on his shoulders. “Wait—I haven’t showered⁠—”

Yeah. Like there’s ever been any stopping Carmine.

He pauses, but doesn’t move away. He lifts his gaze, his piercing blue eyes locked on mine, his fingers digging possessively into my hips. My breath catches as he leans even closer to my pussy.

“I already told you, you’re fucking perfect.” His voice is commanding. “You don’t want to contradict me.”

Fuck. Me.

The way he says it. The certainty. The possessiveness.

A tremor rolls through me, making my breath catch, and all my fight drains away.

His lips curl into a smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he leans in again.

A low moan rips from my chest as his mouth presses to my pussy. He growls into me like an animal—literally growls—as his grip on my hips tightens. My eyes roll back when his wet tongue snakes between my lips, spreading me open, pushing deep.

“Carmine…”

His tongue drags through my lips, flicking over my swollen clit. I whimper loudly, my hands sliding into his hair as my legs shake.

“Keep running those hands through my hair, baby. Like you don’t ever want me to stop.”

His lips fasten around my clit and a choked cry of pleasure tears from my throat as he sucks hard, swirling his tongue around it. My body sags, my hips shamelessly pushing against his mouth and tongue as he turns my world inside out.

‘Look at you,” he groans. “Shaking, dripping, so fucking needy, like a greedy little slut.”

His mouth pulls away from my pussy. Suddenly, I’m gasping as he pushes me back, toppling me over. I hit the bed with a whimper, then he shoves me down and roughly spreads my legs wide open. Carmine grabs my hands, placing them on the backs of my thighs.

“Hands right here, little dancer,” he growls. “Be a good girl and open yourself up for me. Show me what’s mine.‘

His mouth dips between my legs again. My eyes roll back as he wraps his lips around my clit and bats his tongue across the swollen bud. Two of his fingers push into me, curling deep and stroking up against a place inside me in a way that makes my back arch from the bed.

I can’t breathe. Can’t think.

Just feel.

His tongue is relentless, his fingers curling perfectly into me. I grip my thighs tightly, keeping myself right where he wants me.

I whimper brokenly and helplessly as his other hand grabs my ass, his fingers digging into my flesh possessively, bruising it.

“Come for me, little dancer,” he rasps against my pussy. “Let me feel you come right now.”

I arch, my body chasing the pleasure all at once.

“That’s it… Give it to me… Don’t hold back… Give me every fucking drop…”

His voice is darkly hypnotic as it snakes through my veins, making the pleasure coil even tighter.

“So sensitive. So perfect. Look at you, baby, so fucking wrecked for me.”

I cry out, my hands gripping my thighs so hard I swear I’m going to draw blood.

“You don’t come for anyone but me. Say it.”

I sob, barely able to think.

“Say it, Lyra.”

“Only for you,” I gasp, right on the edge.

And then, I fucking shatter.

Pleasure roars through me, pulling me under, drowning me in heat, in fire, in Carmine.

I writhe, screaming his name. He doesn’t stop: his grip tightens, keeping me right there, letting me feel everything.

“Good girl.”

I’m still coming down, trembling, my breath uneven, but Carmine doesn’t give me time to recover. I watch him, dazed, as he stands and shrugs off his black dress shirt, revealing muscle, power, and precision. It’s like every inch of him has been sculpted for destruction and carved from raw brutality. His broad chest, his chiseled abs, the v-lines of his hips. His forearms, roped with veins, flex as he drags his belt free, slow and deliberate.

Fucking hell.

Something dark and dangerous coils in my core as my thighs clench together.

He’s lethal.

The way he moves, the way his body is built to dominate and destroy.

The way he knows exactly what he does to me.

Savageness glints in his eyes as he crawls over me, his weight pressing me down. He moves like a wild animal, caging me beneath him, his hands gripping my wrists, pinning them to the bed as his hips spread my thighs apart.

His scent envelops me, his breath hot against my neck.

His fingers twist into my hair at the nape of my neck, possessive and demanding. His other hand cups my jaw roughly as he slides two fingers over my lips and then pushes them into my mouth.

“Taste yourself. Taste how fucking messy you get for me. Lick your cum off my fingers like a good girl.”

I whimper, my eyes locked on his as my lips wrap around the intruding fingers. I suck on them, tasting myself when he strokes them over my tongue. They slide free, and suddenly his mouth slams to mine, fierce, unrelenting. He lets me taste more of myself on his tongue, a filthy, branding claim, reminding me whose I am.

Heat throbs through my core when I feel his huge, swollen cock drag up my lips, forcing them apart. He centers himself against my opening, his thick size taking my breath away.

His hand moves, gripping my hip, dragging his cock against me. His skin is hot, his muscles taut, flexing and grinding so perfectly I can barely breathe.

“You’re so messy for me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips over my throat. “So fucking greedy. Look at you, baby—all dripping and desperate. You need this, don’t you.”

I nod, unable to form words, my nails digging into his shoulders.

His chuckle is low, knowing. “Such a good girl.”

Then—he slides in.

I cry out, my hands fisting his hair, my body stretching, taking.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. He slams into me, his grip unforgiving, merciless…perfect.

“Take it,” he grunts, his breath hot against my ear. “Take every inch of this thick fucking dick, baby. This is my fucking pussy. It belongs to me, and me alone.” I cry out as he rams harder into me, grinding so deep that my eyes roll back.

“That goes for you, too, little dancer,” he groans, thrusting harder. “You want to touch this pussy? You want to rub your greedy little clit and make yourself come?”

Carmine fucks harder into me, his massive cock stretching me to my limit as I drip all over him.

“Then you’ll have to get on your knees and ask my permission first,” he snarls. “Because this is my fucking pussy now. Not yours. Mine. Now—show me how much my fucking pussy needs my cock.”

Sweet. Fucking. God.

My body yields, welcomes him even deeper, and his groan is pure, feral possession. He grips my thighs, spreading them wider, watching where we’re joined with dark, ravenous hunger.

“Look at you, baby. Taking me like you were fucking made for it.”

I moan shamelessly, my head tipping back against the pillows. But his fingers wrap around my throat, tilting my chin down, forcing my gaze to his.

“Uh-uh,” he growls. “Eyes on me.”

I shudder, blinking at him through the haze of pleasure. His sharp blue eyes are so dark, like midnight and malice. Unhinged, all-consuming.

His hands flex, his fingers pressing against my jaw. “That’s it, baby. Don’t ever hide from me.”

He thrusts deeper, harder, ripping another moaning cry from my throat.

“That’s my fucking good girl,” he growls. “So fucking perfect.”

His hands hold my hips, dragging me against him, using my body exactly the way he wants.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he demands.

I can’t answer. Can’t do anything but take his cock.

His hand moves between us, stroking, teasing, pushing me higher as he rolls and pinches my clit.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say it, or I won’t let you come.”

I sob, already breaking apart.

“Yours,” I gasp. “Yours!”

His groan is pure fucking victory.

He slams his mouth to mine, swallowing every cry, every breath, every single piece of me.

“So fucking perfect, baby. You were made for my fucking cock. I want to fuck you against the wall of the Louvre like the goddamn masterpiece you are.”

The words tear through me, heat gathering low and deep, my body unraveling in his hands.

Then I shatter.

Pleasure detonates through me, violently all-consuming, tearing through my limbs, my spine, my breath. I convulse against him, body arching, fingers clawing into his back, dragging, desperately trying to hold on, trying to anchor myself in the storm he’s unleashed inside me.

Carmine doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t let me drift into the haze of release, doesn’t let me float away from him.

He growls, his hand fisting in my hair, keeping me right here beneath him, trapped in the devastation of my own climax.

‘That’s it, baby. Take it like my good girl.”

His hips rock harder, rougher, keeping me right at the edge, balanced between pleasure and something deeper, darker.

His teeth scrape against my jaw, my throat.

Then he bites down.

Hard.

His teeth sink into my neck, sharp and unrelenting, my skin breaking under the pressure. A strangled cry rips from my lips as a fresh wave of heat slams through me, pain and pleasure tangled together, feeding into each other, making me dizzy, weightless.

He groans against my skin, his tongue lapping over the mark, soothing it, then biting again, like he can’t help himself, needs to mark me deeper.

“Mine,” he snarls. His voice is pure savagery. “You’re fucking mine forever. No one else gets this. No one else fucking touches you.”

I nod frantically, unable to do anything but let him brand me in a way that goes beyond flesh.

His hands grip my thighs and hips, fingers digging in hard, bruising, holding me in place as he drives into me with reckless force.

‘So fucking greedy for me, baby. You love this. Love being filled. Look at you, taking every inch of me.’

His words only drag me deeper under, making me tremble and whimper and beg.

I’m already raw and aching, but then I feel his restraint snapping, feel the moment he lets go, gives in to his need and lets it devour him whole.

His thrusts turn frantic, wild, his breath hot on my sweat-slicked skin. I sob, my legs shaking under his iron grip, my hands tangled in his hair, my nails scraping his scalp.

A ragged growl erupts from his throat, his body tightening, every muscle flexing, his hips slamming one last time, burying himself so deep inside me I swear I feel him touch my soul.

His groan is wrecked and destroyed as his cum pulses into me, heat spilling deep, claiming me from the inside out.

He stays there, his forehead pressed to mine, our breath mingling, his hands still locked tight around my body like he’ll never let go.

Maybe I don’t want him to.