Morning arrived like a verdict.
Liliana woke alone in the crimson sheets, the collar a cool, familiar weight around her throat. The penthouse was quiet except for the low hum of the city fifty stories below. For one terrifying second she thought he had left her unchained, unguarded, free.
Then she saw the leash.
It was clipped to the ring at her throat and anchored to one of the thick iron rings bolted into the headboard. Long enough for her to reach the bathroom and little else. A velvet prison.
She sat up slowly. Every muscle protested. Between her thighs she was tender, swollen, sticky with last night's release. The carved initials on her lower back throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
A silver tray waited on the nightstand: espresso, a single warm cornetto, and a note in Dante's sharp, slanted handwriting.
Eat. Shower. Do not remove the collar.
Be on your knees when I return.
—D
She hated how quickly she obeyed the first two commands.
The shower was a torture of pleasure—hot water sluicing over bruises, soothing the ache between her legs even as it reminded her how thoroughly he had used her. She washed carefully around the brand, watching pink-tinged water swirl down the drain.
When she stepped out, the mirror showed a woman she barely recognized: collar gleaming black against pale skin, nipples peaked from the cool air, faint bite marks scattered like constellations. The ring on her finger caught the light and threw it back blood-red.
She dried her hair, left it loose the way he liked, and walked naked back into the bedroom.
The leash tugged gently as she sank to her knees in the center of the thick rug.
She waited.
Twenty-three minutes later (she counted every second), the bedroom door opened.
Dante stepped inside wearing a charcoal three-piece suit, white shirt open at the throat, no tie. The jacket stretched across shoulders she had clawed raw two nights ago. He looked like sin poured into bespoke wool.
His gaze found her instantly—kneeling, back straight, palms open on her thighs exactly as he had taught her without words.
Something dark and approving flared in his winter eyes.
"Good girl," he said, voice velvet and smoke.
He crossed the room slowly, letting the anticipation build. When he reached her, he cupped her chin, tilted her face up.
"Today," he said, "you learn what this mouth was made for."
He unbuckled his belt with deliberate calm. The sound of leather sliding through metal made her stomach flip.
He didn't free himself yet. Instead he wound the belt once around his fist and used it to tip her head farther back.
"Eyes on me. Always."
Then he unzipped.
He was already hard, thick and flushed, the head slick with anticipation. He painted her lips with it, smearing the bead of precum across them like gloss.
"Open."
She did.
He fed himself into her mouth inch by slow inch, letting her feel every ridge, every pulse. When she gagged at the halfway mark, he paused, stroked her hair.
"Breathe through your nose. Relax your throat. You were born to take me."
He pushed deeper.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but she forced herself to swallow around him, to hollow her cheeks the way instinct told her he would like. A low growl rumbled from his chest.
His hands tangled in her hair—not guiding yet, just holding. Letting her set the pace at first.
She did her best: tongue tracing the vein underneath, lips sealed tight, tentative suction. The taste of him—salt and dark heat—flooded her mouth.
After a minute he took over.
He held her head still and fucked her mouth with slow, controlled strokes, never deeper than she could take, but relentless. Each time he hit the back of her throat he held for a heartbeat, eyes locked on hers, watching tears spill over.
"Look at you," he rasped. "Collared and crying on my cock like you were made for this."
She whimpered around him, the vibration drawing a sharp hiss from his teeth.
He pulled out suddenly, leaving her gasping, saliva shining on her chin. He hauled her up by the leash and kissed her—brutal, filthy, tasting himself on her tongue.
When he broke away, both of them were breathing hard.
"Bed. On your back. Head off the edge."
She scrambled to obey.
He positioned her exactly how he wanted—head hanging upside down over the side, throat open, collar pressing into the mattress. The new angle made her feel even more exposed.
He fed himself back into her mouth, deeper this time. Gravity helped; the position straightened her throat. He slid in until his balls rested against her nose and held.
She panicked for a second, couldn't breathe, but his hand stroked her throat soothingly.
"Swallow," he ordered.
She did. The contraction of her muscles pulled a guttural curse from him.
He began to move—long, slow thrusts that used her mouth like he had used her body. One hand braced on the mattress, the other wrapped around her throat so he could feel himself moving inside her.
The world narrowed to heat and salt and the obscene sounds of her choking on him.
When he finally came, it was with a low, prolonged groan, spilling straight down her throat. He held her there until she swallowed every drop, then withdrew slowly, letting her gasp and cough.
He flipped her upright, gathered her trembling body against his chest, and kissed the tears from her cheeks.
"Breathe, amore," he murmured, surprisingly gentle. "You did so well."
She clung to him without thinking, burying her face in his shirt, inhaling cedar and gunpowder and the faint trace of her own desperation.
After a moment he laid her back, spread her thighs, and looked his fill.
"Still swollen," he noted with satisfaction. "Good. I want you to feel me every time you move today."
He didn't fuck her. Instead he lowered his head and licked her slowly, reverently, until she was writhing and begging again. Two fingers inside her, tongue on her clit, he brought her over the edge twice—once soft and shuddering, once hard enough that she squirted against his mouth, mortified and euphoric.
Only then did he rise, wipe his face with the back of his hand, and smile down at her wrecked, collared, utterly owned.
"Get dressed," he said. "Something pretty. We're going out."
She blinked through the haze. "Where?"
His smile turned sharp.
"To church," he said. "You're confessing your sins to a priest today."
He leaned down, brushed a kiss across her swollen lips.
"And then I'm going to add a few more."