The key turned in the lock and she was already moving, her bare feet slapping against the black marble, her breasts bouncing with each stride, the cool air of the penthouse kissing her skin as she crossed the foyer in three heartbeats.
The door swung open and she launched herself at him, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms locking behind his neck, and she was crying before she even said a word—tears streaming down her cheeks, her voice breaking against his throat. "I missed you so much. I missed you so much, Dante."
His arms came around her, one hand gripping her bare thigh, the other pressing flat against her lower back, and he held her there, suspended between him and the doorframe, his breath warm against her ear. "Moya," he said, low and rough, the word a vibration she felt in her chest. "I'm here."
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes red, her nose running, her face blotchy and ugly and she didn't care—she grabbed his wrists, guided his hands down to her ass, pressed his palms flat against her cheeks and held them there, desperate for the weight of him. "I need—I need you to—" She couldn't finish the sentence. She just pushed his hands harder against her skin, her fingers lacing through his, showing him where she wanted him to touch.
His thumbs found the curve of her cheeks, spreading her open, and she sighed, her whole body relaxing into his grip like she'd been holding her breath for three days. "That's it," she whispered against his mouth, her hips rolling forward, the head of his cock pressing against her stomach through his suit pants. "That's what I needed."
He carried her through the entryway, his shoes clicking against the marble, her legs still locked around his waist, and she buried her face in his neck, breathing him in—cedar and leather and something darker, something that was just him, the smell of safety and home. "I counted the days," she murmured, her lips brushing his pulse. "I counted every single one."
He set her down at the edge of the leather couch, her knees sinking into the cushion, her hands gripping the armrest as he guided her forward, bending her over the smooth surface until her chest pressed against the cool leather, her ass high in the air, her pussy already slick and waiting. "You missed me, moya?" His voice was a low rumble behind her, his hands settling on her hips, his thumbs tracing the dip of her lower back.
"So much," she breathed, her fingers curling into the leather. "I couldn't sleep. I kept reaching for you in the bed and you weren't there."
His hands slid down, cupping her ass cheeks, spreading them wide, and she felt the cool air kiss her asshole, the exposed heat of her pussy, the vulnerability of being open like this—and she loved it, loved that he could see all of her, loved that he wanted to. "I won't leave again without you," he said, and she felt the weight of the promise in the way his fingers tightened on her skin. "Never again."
She turned her head, her cheek pressed to the leather, and smiled at him over her shoulder, tears still wet on her face. "Promise?"
"I don't make promises I can't keep." His thumb circled her asshole, slow and deliberate, and she gasped, her back arching, pushing into the pressure. "You're mine, Anya. You come with me. Everywhere."
"Okay," she whispered, her voice thick with relief. "Okay."
His thumb pressed in, one slow inch, and she moaned, her eyes fluttering closed, her body opening for him the way it always did—trusting, greedy, hungry for the fullness of him. "Best friends," she breathed, and she felt him pause, just for a second, before his thumb pushed deeper, then two fingers, stretching her open, and she gripped the leather harder, her hips rocking back to meet him.
"Best friends," he echoed, and there was something in his voice—a darkness, a heat, a hunger that made her pussy clench around nothing. "Tell me how much you missed me."
"I missed your hands," she said, her voice breaking as his fingers worked deeper, curling inside her, his knuckles pressing against her rim. "I missed the way you hold me. I missed waking up with you inside me. I missed—" She gasped as his whole fist pushed in, the stretch burning, the fullness overwhelming, and she cried out, her nails scratching the leather. "I missed everything."
His other hand came around her hip, finding her breast, gripping it hard, his thumb and forefinger finding her nipple and pinching—sharp, precise, a spike of pleasure-pain that made her whimper. "You're so beautiful like this," he said, his voice strained, his fist moving inside her in slow, deliberate circles. "Bent over my couch, taking everything I give you, asking for more."
"Because I trust you," she whispered, the words falling out of her without thought, pure and true. "I trust you more than anyone."
He pulled his fist out slowly, the drag of his knuckles against her walls making her shudder, and then he was gone—empty, aching, the cool air rushing into the space he'd filled. She whimpered, pushing her ass back, searching for him, and then she felt the head of his cock pressing against her pussy, wet and slick and thick, and she moaned, her whole body trembling with anticipation.
"Please," she breathed. "Please, Dante."
He pushed in in one wet shove, filling her completely, and she screamed—a raw, broken sound that echoed off the marble floors, her fingers white-knuckled on the leather, her ass pressed against his hips as he buried himself to the hilt. "That's it," he growled, his hands gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her skin. "Take it. Take all of it."
She couldn't speak. She could only moan, her forehead pressed to the leather, her body rocking with each thrust, the sound of their skin slapping together filling the penthouse. "I missed your cuddles," she sobbed, the words tumbling out between gasps. "I missed falling asleep on your chest. I missed—"
He spanked her, hard, his palm cracking against her ass cheek, and she cried out, the sting blooming across her skin, mixing with the pleasure of his cock driving into her. "You missed my cuddles?" His voice was dark, amused, and he spanked her again, harder, his handprint burning into her flesh.
"Yes," she sobbed, pushing back onto his cock, taking him deeper. "I missed—"
He spanked her a third time, and she gasped, her pussy clenching around him, her body trembling. "You're going to be sore tomorrow," he said, and there was a smile in his voice. "You're going to feel me every time you sit down."
"Good," she whispered, and she meant it. "I want to feel you."
He pulled out, and she whined at the emptiness, but then he was spreading her ass cheeks apart, his thumbs pulling her open, and she heard a click—the camera shutter on his phone. "Smile, moya."
She laughed, a wet, happy sound, and turned her head, her face blotchy from crying, her hair a mess, her body still trembling from the orgasm she hadn't even realized she was building toward. She smiled, wide and genuine, as he took another picture, then another, posing mid-stroke, her ass in the air, her pussy dripping onto the leather. "Send me those," she said, her voice breathless. "I want to remember this."
"I'll frame them," he said, and she couldn't tell if he was joking. His hand came down on her ass again, a sharp slap that made her yelp, and then he was pushing his cock back into her, filling her in one smooth motion, and she moaned, her eyes rolling back, her body surrendering to the rhythm of him.
"You're never leaving me again," she whispered, her voice muffled by the leather. "Promise me."
He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his lips brushing her ear. "I promise, moya. I'll never leave you again."
She felt the words in her bones, in the way his cock throbbed inside her, in the way his hands gripped her hips like she was the only solid thing in a world of shadows. She turned her head, finding his mouth, kissing him with everything she had—sloppy, desperate, tasting salt and tears and him.
"I love you," she breathed against his lips, the words falling out before she could catch them, and she felt him freeze, his cock still buried inside her, his breath catching in his throat.
For a long moment, there was only silence, the distant hum of the city below, the beating of their hearts through the space between their bodies.
Then he kissed her back, hard and deep, and she felt something shift in his hands, in the way they held her, in the way he moved inside her—slower now, deeper, like he was trying to tell her something he couldn't say.
"I know," he whispered, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath warm and uneven. "I know, moya."
And she smiled, her eyes closing, her body melting into his, because that was enough. That was everything. She was home.
He didn't pull away. His mouth stayed on hers, soft and searching, and she felt the shift in his hips—a slow roll, a deeper press, the way his cock settled inside her like it belonged there. She sighed into his mouth, her fingers threading through his hair, her body melting into the leather beneath her. "I love you," she whispered again, the words tasting like freedom, like the only truth she'd ever spoken.
He kissed her harder, his tongue sliding against hers, and then his hands were moving—one gripping her hip, the other sliding up her stomach to her chest, finding her nipple and rolling it between his fingers. She gasped, her back arching, and he broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm and uneven. "I know, moya."
But something in his voice had changed. The tenderness was still there, but underneath it—something darker, hungrier, a heat that made her pussy clench around him. His hips began to move, slow at first, a gentle rocking that made her moan, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. "I missed you," she breathed, her eyes fluttering closed. "I missed this."
He didn't answer with words. His hand left her nipple, gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, and his pace shifted—faster, harder, the sound of their skin slapping together filling the penthouse. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders, her head falling back against the leather. "Yes," she gasped. "Yes, yes, yes—"
His thrusts were brutal now, each one driving her into the couch, the leather squeaking beneath her weight, the air thick with the sound of his breathing and her moans. She didn't understand why he was fucking her like this—so hard, so fast, like he was trying to bury himself inside her—but she didn't care. This was how he showed he missed her. This was how he showed he loved her. She was sure of it.
He pulled out, and she whined at the emptiness, but then he was grabbing her hips, flipping her over, bending her over the arm of the couch until her chest pressed against the cool leather, her ass high in the air, her pussy dripping onto the cushion. She heard his belt clink, heard the rustle of his clothes, and then his hands were on her ass, spreading her cheeks apart, his thumbs circling her asshole in slow, deliberate strokes.
"Spread yourself for me, moya." His voice was low and rough, a command wrapped in a whisper, and she obeyed without thinking—reaching back, gripping her own cheeks, pulling them apart until she felt the cool air kiss her exposed hole. "Like this?" she asked, her voice breathless, happy, proud to be doing what he asked.
"Just like that." His thumb pressed in, one slow inch, and she moaned, her forehead pressed to the leather, her fingers still holding herself open. "You're so beautiful like this. Taking everything I give you."
"Because I trust you," she whispered, and she meant it. She would do anything for him. Anything.
He pulled his thumb out, and she felt the head of his cock pressing against her asshole, thick and slick and hot. She held her breath, waiting, and then he pushed in—one slow, relentless inch at a time, stretching her open, filling her in a way that made her see stars behind her eyes. She cried out, a raw, broken sound, her fingers gripping her cheeks tighter, her body trembling with the effort of taking him.
"That's it," he growled, his hands settling on her hips, his fingers digging into her skin. "Take it. Take all of it."
He pushed deeper, and she felt the fullness, the burn, the pleasure mixing with pain until she couldn't tell them apart. She loved it. She loved the way he took her, the way he claimed her, the way he made her his with every thrust. "Best friends," she sobbed, the words muffled by the leather. "Best friends take care of each other."
He didn't answer. He just started to move—slow at first, a deep, grinding rhythm that made her moan with every stroke, and then faster, harder, pounding into her with a ferocity that made the couch shake beneath them. She screamed, her fingers slipping on her ass cheeks, and he reached down, grabbing her wrists, pressing her hands flat against the leather. "Keep holding yourself open," he said, his voice a dark command. "I want to see you take it."
She obeyed, her fingers finding her cheeks again, pulling them apart as he drove into her, his cock sliding in and out of her ass in a wet, slick rhythm that made her dizzy. She couldn't think. She could only feel—the stretch, the fullness, the heat of him inside her, the way her body was opening for him like it had been waiting for this all along.
"I'm in heaven," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm in heaven, Dante."
He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his lips brushing her ear. "You're mine, Anya. Every inch of you. Every hole. Every breath." She nodded, tears streaming down her face, her body shaking with each thrust. "Yes," she breathed. "Yours. I'm yours."
His hand slid up her body, finding her breast, gripping it hard, his thumb and forefinger finding her nipple and pulling—sharp, hard, the kind of pinch that made her gasp, that made her pussy clench around nothing, that sent a spike of pleasure through her whole body. "That's how I show you I love you," he said, his voice strained, his hips still pounding into her ass. "Do you feel it?"
"Yes," she sobbed, tears falling onto the leather. "I feel it. I feel everything."
He pinched her other nipple, harder, the pain mixing with the pleasure of his cock filling her, and she came—a sudden, violent orgasm that ripped through her, her body convulsing, her ass clenching around him as she screamed his name. He didn't stop. He kept fucking her, kept pounding into her, his fingers still pulling her nipples, the pleasure building again before she had even finished coming.
She was crying now, tears streaming down her face, but she was smiling too—a wide, genuine smile that hurt her cheeks. She was so grateful. So grateful that he showed her this way, that he loved her this way, that he wanted her this much. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice raw. "Thank you for showing me."
He didn't answer. He just kept fucking her, his pace relentless, his hands rough, his breath hot against her neck. She held herself open, her fingers trembling, her ass cheeks spread wide, and she let him take her, let him use her, let him love her in the only way she knew how to receive.
She was home. She was safe. She was loved.
And she was oblivious to the darkness in his eyes, to the way he watched her, to the hunger that would never be satisfied—because she was his, and he would never let her go.