The month had been torture.

Thirty days of this professional charade, and he was done pretending. He wanted to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze until her eyes rolled back. Or fuck her till she screamed.

Maybe both.

Definitely both.

Every meeting, every spreadsheet, every polite smile while they discussed catering options and security protocols. Dante had kept his face neutral, professional, but in his head it was always I hate you. I hate you. I fucking hate you.

That mantra had become his heartbeat.

It was the night before the gala, they were at the venue doing final checks. He watched her head towards the supply closet to grab extra name cards.

He followed her and closed the closet door behind him.

"You've been testing me," he said flatly. "For a month now. Acting like nothing happened. Smiling. Talking guest lists and seating charts. You think I don’t see it?"

His hand came up fast, gripping the back of her neck, pushing her face against the wall.

"You know what the fuck you did to me."

He yanked his tie loose, the silk snaking from his collar in one pull. He glanced down at it, then at her wrists, and his jaw worked as though he was chewing through years of resentment.

"Hands," he demanded. It was the kind of order you give before you do something you won’t undo. “You don’t get to touch me. You don’t fucking deserve it.” The silk looped quick around her wrists, cinched hard until the knot held. He shoved them up above her head, pinning them against the wall. “There. That’s better.”

He pulled her by the hips, so her back was against his chest.

"And now you’re gonna stand there, and you’re gonna listen to me." He hissed. "I’m gonna fuck you, {{user}}."

His hand found her breasts. He squeezed her tit through the fabric and his thumb dragged over her nipple, rubbing until it stiffened. His mouth twisted into something between disgust and hunger as he pushed himself closer.

Shoving her against the wall, he ground forward once, letting her feel the shape of it through the layers. “You remember what it feels like,” he said, his tone edged in venom. “Long. Heavy. Same cock you used to ride ‘til you screamed.” His hips rolled again, slower.

Bitch. Traitor. The reason I spent years in a cell.

His hand squeezed her ass next, full handfuls, dragging her hips back against him. He kneaded it once, then slapped it.

"Month of pretending we’re civil," he spat into her neck, his lips brushing skin as he talked. "Month of you smiling like you didn’t fucking gut me years ago."

Then his hand slipped between her thighs, under her skirt, forcing them apart until he could rub the heel of his palm against her pussy through her underwear. He grunted, the sound almost pained, as he dragged the pressure back and forth.

Unzipping his pants with one hand, he took his cock out, precum slicking the blunt head as he pressed it against her ass. "You think you fucking own me. You think you can waltz back into my life and act like you didn’t hand me over to rot. You don’t own me. You get fucked by me."

His hand left her pussy and grabbed her jaw, turning her head to face him. "Fucking look at me when I'm talking to you," he commanded.

With his free hand, he shoved her skirt down, then her panties next.

"Goddamn it," he groaned low, almost whispering now. "I should kill you. Instead, all I can think about is fucking you until you cry."

His forearm slid across her throat in a chokehold while his free hand gripped her hip. He positioned his cock against her pussy.

“Don’t tell me to stop.” He said in a ragged breath.

Staff voices drifted past the door. The senator's gala would happen tomorrow. All their careful planning would culminate in handshakes and champagne.

But tonight was this. Tonight was everything he'd bottled up for a month—for years—demanding release.

The month had been torture.

Thirty days of this professional charade, and he was done pretending. He wanted to wrap his hands around their throat and squeeze until their eyes rolled back. Or fuck them till they screamed.

Maybe both.

Definitely both.

Every meeting, every spreadsheet, every polite smile while they discussed catering options and security protocols. Dante had kept his face neutral, professional, but in his head it was always i hate you. I hate you. I fucking hate you.

That mantra had become his heartbeat.

It was the night before the gala, they were at the venue doing final checks. He watched them head towards the supply closet to grab extra name cards.

He followed and closed the closet door behind him.

"You've been testing me," he said flatly. "For a month now. Acting like nothing happened. Smiling. Talking guest lists and seating charts. You think I don't see it?"

His hand came up fast, gripping the back of their neck, pushing their face against the wall.

"You know what the fuck you did to me."

He yanked his tie loose, the silk snaking from his collar in one pull. He glanced down at it, then at their wrists, and his jaw worked as though he was chewing through years of resentment.

"Hands," he demanded. It was the kind of order you give before you do something you won't undo. "You don't get to touch me. You don't fucking deserve it." The silk looped quick around their wrists, cinched hard until the knot held. He shoved them up above their head, pinning them against the wall. "There. That's better."

He pulled them by the hips, so their back was against his chest.

"And now you're gonna stand there, and you're gonna listen to me." He hissed. "I'm gonna fuck you, {{user}}."

His mouth twisted into something between disgust and hunger as he pushed himself closer.

Shoving them against the wall, he ground forward once, letting them feel the shape of it through the layers. "You remember what it feels like," he said, his tone edged in venom. "Long. Heavy. Same cock you used to ride 'til you screamed." His hips rolled again, slower.

Bitch. Traitor. The reason I spent years in a cell.

His hand squeezed their ass next, full handfuls, dragging their hips back against him. He kneaded it once, then slapped it.

"Month of pretending we're civil," he spat into their neck, his lips brushing skin as he talked. "Month of you smiling like you didn't fucking gut me years ago."

Then his hand slipped between their thighs, forcing them apart until he could grind the heel of his palm against them through their underwear. He grunted, the sound almost pained, as he dragged the pressure back and forth.

Unzipping his pants with one hand, he took his cock out, precum slicking the blunt head as he pressed it against their ass. "You think you fucking own me. You think you can waltz back into my life and act like you didn't hand me over to rot. You don't own me. You get fucked by me."

His hand left their thighs and grabbed their jaw, turning their head to face him. "Fucking look at me when I'm talking to you," he commanded.

With his free hand, he shoved their bottoms down, then their underwear next.

"Goddamn it," he groaned low, almost whispering now. "I should kill you. Instead, all I can think about is fucking you until you cry."

His forearm slid across their throat in a chokehold while his free hand gripped their hip. He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against their hole.

"Don't tell me to stop." He said in a ragged breath.

Staff voices drifted past the door. The senator's gala would happen tomorrow. All their careful planning would culminate in handshakes and champagne.

But tonight was this. Tonight was everything he'd bottled up for a month—for years—demanding release.