His to Unravel

“You’re afraid I’ll expect something from you.”

His voice was low. Honest. Dante. My husband. Sat in the armchair by the window, the late evening light carving him out of the shadows. He looked like one of those stone statues, all hard lines and stillness. But breathing. Watching me.

“But I don’t want you because you’re mine,” he went on, each word landing like a soft weight in the quiet room. “I want you when you want to give yourself to me.”

I stood near the edge of the big, new bed, the expensive sheets probably softer than anything I’d ever owned. It felt like a stage. And I was the one awkward actor who’d forgotten all her lines. My fingers curled into the flimsy black silk of the nightgown I’d bought in a fit of pure, terrified hope three days ago. After a week of this. A week of him being… polite. Distant. A week of me sleeping on my very edge of this very large bed, curled up tight, wondering if he was even breathing the same air, let alone thinking about me.

He doesn’t want you, my brain had whispered every morning. This whole thing was a mistake. Some… arrangement. And you’re the idiot who thought it might be more.

Gabriella’s voice, blunt as a slammed door, from our call: “Jena, for crying out loud. He’s a man. A very… that kind of man. He probably thinks you’re waiting for an engraved invitation. Wear the damn red thing. Or something. Anything. Show him you’re not just a piece of fancy furniture.”

So I’d bought this. Black, not red. Sheer enough to make my stomach clench just holding it up in the shop. And tonight, after another silent dinner where his eyes had slid over me and away, I’d put it on.

Stood in front of the bathroom mirror for ten minutes, heart hammering, before I’d dared to walk out.

He hadn’t said a word when I entered. Just watched. That heavy, unreadable gaze. Until now.

I swallowed. My throat was dry. My whole body felt… tight. Like a wire pulled taut.

He stood up then, slow, fluid. Unfolding himself from the chair. Each movement was deliberate, nothing wasted. He walked over. Didn’t rush. The room shrank. Or maybe I did.

I didn’t flinch, though. Some small, stupid part of me was too desperate for him to finally, finally close the gap.

He stopped right in front of me. Close enough that I could smell the faint, clean scent of his skin, something musky and male underneath. My eyes fixed on the crisp white fabric of his shirt, the way it stretched just a bit across his chest. God, his chest.

I had to tilt my head back to look at his face. His eyes were dark, searching.

“What if I don’t know how?” The words were a breath, barely there. Ashamed.

His hand came up. Not fast. Predictable, but it still made my heart jump. Knuckles, warm and rough, brushed under my chin, tipping it up a fraction more. A shiver went through me, quick and hot.

“Then I’ll teach you,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated right through me. “Every way. Every breath. Until your body knows what your voice won’t say yet.”

Teach me. My mind snagged on the word. Like I was a student. And he was… what? The professor of… this?

His thumb stroked lightly along my jaw. Just once. But it left a trail of fire.

“Turn around,” he said. Soft. A request, not an order. But the air thrummed with something that said I’d do it anyway.

I turned, slow. My back to him. The silk of the nightgown felt suddenly very thin. I could feel his gaze on me, like actual hands. Tracing the line of my spine, the curve of my ass. My nipples were pebbles, hard against the fabric. He sees. He’s really looking. The thought was terrifying. And thrilling.

“The tag is sticking out,” he murmured. I felt his fingers at the nape of my neck, impossibly gentle, tucking it in. His knuckles brushed my skin again. Just a feather touch. My breath caught.

Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.

“Did you buy this for me, Jena?” His voice was closer now, right by my ear. His breath warmed my skin.

I nodded. A tiny, jerky movement.

“Why?”

My mind went blank. Because I was desperate? Because Gabriella said to? Because I want you to rip it off me?

“I…” I licked my lips. “I thought… you might like it.” Pathetic.

A low chuckle, a sound I hadn't heard in what felt like forever. It wasn’t unkind. “I do.”

His hands settled on my shoulders. Lightly. But I felt rooted to the spot. His thumbs began to draw small circles. Slow. Hypnotic.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

I shook my head. I was burning up.

“Tell me what you feel, Jena.” His voice was still soft, patient.

“I… I don’t know.” A lie. I felt a thousand things. Scared. Excited. Confused. And under it all, a thrumming, insistent ache starting low in my belly. Him. I feel him.

His hands slid down my arms, his fingers tracing the thin straps of the nightgown, then down further, over the silk covering my ribs, my waist. Stopping just above my hips. He wasn't gripping, just… resting. A promise. Or a threat.

“You’re trembling.”
“Yes.” No point denying it.

He turned me around, slowly, his hands firm on my waist now. His eyes scanned my face, then dropped, lingering on my mouth, then lower, to my breasts where my nipples were pushing so obviously against the silk. A little smile touched his lips.

Not mocking. Knowing.
Oh, God. He knows.

“What is it you want me to teach you first?” he asked, his gaze lifting back to mine, holding it.

The directness of the question stole my breath. My mind raced. Everything.

Nothing. How to make you look at me like this all the time. How to make you want me so much you can’t think.

“I… I don’t…”
“Shhh.” He lifted a finger, pressed it gently to my lips. “No ‘I don’t know.’ Not anymore. We’re past that.” His eyes were very dark. Intense. “Think, Jena. What does your body want right now?”

My body. It wanted to sway into him. It wanted his hands on me, everywhere. It wanted his mouth.

He was so close. That scent of him. I could see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. The way his jaw was set. Strong. Everything about him was strong. His biceps, even relaxed, strained the sleeves of his shirt. I’d seen him at the gym in our building a few times, before… before this marriage thing became official. I could never even imagine us together. I could imagine him with someone posh though. He lifted weights that looked like they’d crush a normal person. The focused intensity on his face then… it was a little like how he was looking at me now.

His hands. What would his hands feel like? Really feel like?

My gaze flickered down to his mouth.
He saw. Of course, he saw.

“This?” he murmured, his head dipping slowly.

He didn't rush. He let me see it coming. Let me feel the air change between us, charge up like before a storm. My eyelids fluttered closed just as his lips brushed mine.

Soft. Softer than I expected. A question.
My breath hitched. A tiny sound.

His lips pressed a little firmer. Still gentle. Exploring. Testing.

And then, I don’t know what happened. Maybe it was the week of aching silence, the desperation, the raw hope. Maybe it was just him. But a small, broken sound escaped my throat, and my hands, without me even thinking, came up and clutched at his shirt. Clumsy. Needy.

That was all it took.

The kiss changed.

It wasn’t soft anymore. It was… consuming. His mouth slanted over mine, hard, demanding. His tongue swept in, tangling with mine. Oh. A shockwave went through me. Heat. Everywhere.

He made a sound, a low growl deep in his chest, and his arms wrapped around me, one hand splaying wide against my lower back, pulling me tight against him.

Against him. I could feel every solid line of his body. His thighs, his stomach, and - oh, God - the hard ridge of his arousal pressing into my belly.

My knees went weak. Literally. I sagged against him, and his arm tightened, holding me up.

His other hand slid up my back, into my hair, fingers tangling, tilting my head to a better angle for his mouth. Deeper. Harder. He tasted like… like Dante. Like want. Like a promise of everything I’d been too scared to even dream about.

My mind wasn’t thinking anymore. It was just… feeling. The scrape of his evening stubble against my skin. The wet heat of his mouth. The strength of his arms. The insistent pressure of his erection against me.

Yes. This. Oh, fuck, yes.
He broke the kiss, but only to trail his mouth down my jaw, along my throat. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that made me gasp.

“Ah…” My head fell back, offering him more. My fingers were still fisted in his shirt.

“Is this… what you wanted to learn, Jena?” he rasped, his breath hot against my pulse.

“Mmm...,” I breathed out, arching into him. Don’t talk. Just… more.

His hand moved from my hair, slid down my front, over the silk. His palm cupped my breast. Gently. But the heat of it seared through the thin fabric. He squeezed, just a little.

A moan ripped out of me, louder this time. “Oh, ...mmm…”

His thumb brushed over my nipple, back and forth, and it was like a jolt of pure electricity. I cried out, a small, helpless sound.

He lifted his head, his eyes blazing down at me. “is this what you wanted to feel?”
I could only nod, panting.

“Good.” He bent and kissed me again, shorter this time, but just as hard. Then he stepped back, just a little. My hands fell away from his shirt. I felt wobbly. Exposed.
His eyes raked over me, from my flushed face, down my body, lingering on my breasts, my stomach, the dark shadow between my legs barely hidden by the sheer silk.

“Take it off,” he said, his voice a low command.
My breath caught. Take it… off?

“Now, Jena.” No anger. Just that quiet intensity that made my skin prickle.
My fingers fumbled for the thin straps. They felt slippery. My hands were shaking. I managed one, then the other. The silk slithered down my body, pooling at my feet in a dark puddle.

I stood before him, naked. The air in the room felt cold on my skin suddenly. Or maybe it was just the heat of his gaze.

He didn’t move. Just looked. For a long moment, the silence stretched, filled only with my ragged breathing.
He thinks I’m… plain. Or too skinny. Or…

“Beautiful,” he said, his voice husky. He took a step closer. Then another.
He reached out, not to touch my body, but to pick up a strand of my hair, letting it sift through his fingers. “You hide yourself too much.”

His eyes met mine. “No more hiding.”
He took my hand, his grip firm, warm. He led me to the bed.

“Lie down.” The words were soft, but absolute.

My knees buckled slightly as I sank onto the cool sheets. My heart was a wild thing against my ribs. He looked down at me, his expression unreadable for a second, then his voice came, low, rough.

“I am going to taste you Jena.”

I fell back fully, head hitting the pillow. He didn’t wait for an answer. He was already moving, coming down over me. He didn’t get on the bed, not yet. He knelt between my legs. His hands went to my thighs, gently but firmly parting them.

He spread them, wider.
My breath hitched, feeling the vulnerability, the exposure. But under it, a sharp, urgent thrill. He’s going to…

His eyes burned into me, then dipped lower. His gaze felt like a brand on my wet, aching flesh.

His breath brushed my inner thigh. Soft. Then his mouth found my clit.
Oh.

Soft at first. A delicate pressure. Exploring. Then firmer. Lapping. Circling.
Fuck… his tongue… ah…

Flicking. Fast. Then slow and deep.

“Ah…” I gasped, my hips instinctively trying to move against his mouth, to get more of that impossible sensation. He pinned my hips down with one strong forearm, his other hand stroking up my inner thigh, then slipping two fingers deep inside me.

Oh, God. He’s inside me.

“Mmm. Fuck.” His voice was a growl against my clit, vibrations shooting through me. “You’re wet, Jena. This is what you want.”

The words, from his mouth, in this moment, sent a fresh wave of heat washing over me. He fucked me with his fingers, curling them just right, hitting a spot deep inside that made me cry out, while his tongue never stopped its relentless, perfect work on my clit.

I moaned, a raw, desperate sound, thighs trembling around his head, bucking against his hand. Ah. He’s so fucking good. Oh, God. His tongue… mmmm…

Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, when the pleasure was so intense it was almost pain, threatening to shatter me, he stopped.

No. No, no, no.
I whimpered, a small, lost sound. My body pulsed, needy, frustrated.

He lifted his head, his dark hair mussed, his lips slick. His eyes were blazing. “Look at me, Jena.”

I blinked, trying to focus. He was still between my legs, his hand still inside me, fingers still.

“You like that?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Yes,” I gasped out. “Please… Dante…”

“Please what?” One finger inside me moved, just a twitch, pressing against that sensitive spot.
“Don’t… stop,” I begged.

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. “I haven’t even started teaching you properly yet.”

His hand inside me moved again, slowly this time, stretching me, and his thumb found my clit, pressing, circling, just as his tongue had. But this was different. His mouth was free.

And he used it. He leaned forward, his free hand coming up to cup my breast, squeezing gently, while his mouth found mine again. Kissing me deep, hard, swallowing my moans as his thumb worked its magic below.

My head was thrashing on the pillows. It was too much. His mouth. His hand on my breast. His thumb on my clit. His fingers deep inside me. Overload.
He’s… everywhere. Doing everything. Oh fuck.

He broke the kiss, his breath ragged. “You feel good, Jena. So fucking tight. So wet.” He bit my lower lip, gently, then soothed it with his tongue.

His fingers inside me began to move in earnest again, pumping in and out, while his thumb stayed locked on my clit, rubbing, pressing.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmured, his lips against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. His other hand left my breast and slid up, tangling in my hair, gripping, not painfully, but firmly, anchoring me. “Come for me, Jena. Show me.”

I was sobbing now, incoherent pleas and moans. The pressure was building, coiling tight, so tight.

And then, something shifted.
He pulled his fingers out. My whole body screamed in protest.

But then he was moving, standing. He reached for something on the floor. His belt. My eyes widened. His belt? What…

He didn’t say anything. He came back to the bed, looming over me. He took my right wrist. My heart hammered. What is he going to do?

He drew my arm up, above my head, towards the heavy, carved mahogany bedpost. He looped his leather belt around my wrist, then around the bedpost. Not tight enough to hurt. But snug. My arm was anchored. Immobilized.

My breath hitched. A wild, scared, electrified thrill shot through me.

He looked down at me, his eyes dark, unreadable. “Don’t move that arm.”

Then he was back between my legs. But this time, he positioned himself differently. He didn’t kneel. He stood, braced one hand on the mattress beside my hip, and with his other hand, he guided himself to my entrance.

The head of his cock pressed against my slick folds. Big. Hot.
Oh. God. He’s so big.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

I looked up, my free hand gripping the sheet. My other arm was stretched above me, tied to the bedpost. The sensation of that small, strange restraint was doing insane things to my senses. Making everything sharper. More intense.

“This is what you are doing to me, Jena,” he said, his voice guttural, tight. And then he pushed in.

Slowly.
Inch by torturous inch.

I cried out, a sharp, raw sound, half pain, half unbearable pleasure. He was so thick. Stretching me. Filling me.

Fuck. He’s filling me completely.

He paused, buried deep inside me, letting me feel him. His hips were pressed tight against mine. His hand was still braced on the mattress, his bicep bulging with the effort. The other gripped my hip, fingers digging in.

“You feel that?” he rasped, his forehead resting against mine. “I want you to feel all of me.”

I could only nod, tears leaking from my eyes.
“Good.”

And then he began to move.

Slow, deep thrusts. Each one hit that spot his fingers had found, but with a force, a depth, that made my vision white out for a second. My free hand clawed at the sheets. My tethered arm pulled slightly against the belt, the leather cool against my skin.

“Ah… Dante… please…”

“Please what?” he grunted, his rhythm picking up. Faster now. Harder.

He leaned down, his mouth finding my neck, biting down, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make me gasp, to send another jolt of shocked pleasure through me. “You like it rough, Jena?” His hips slammed into me. “Because I’m being honest. This is what you do to me. This hunger.”

His words, raw and possessive, stoked the fire inside me higher. My hips bucked up to meet his, instinctively.

His free hand came up, not to my breast this time, but to my throat. Not choking. Just… holding. A claim. His thumb pressed against the pulse fluttering wildly there. “So responsive. So fucking beautiful when you come apart for me.”

The sight of his hand on my throat, his belt around my wrist, him buried deep inside me, moving with such power… It was a dark, terrible, beautiful picture. And it was all for me. Because of me.

The orgasm, when it hit, was a tidal wave. It started deep, coiling in my belly, then exploding outwards. My whole body arched, convulsing around him. I screamed, a raw, ragged sound, lost and found all at once. The belt around my wrist was the only thing keeping that arm from flailing wildly.

He roared my name, his own release imminent, his thrusts becoming frantic, brutal, perfect. He drove into me one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and then he stilled, shuddering, his hot seed flooding me.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. Just the sound of our harsh breathing in the room. His weight was heavy on me, but it was a good weight. Grounding.

Slowly, he pulled out, a slick, wet sound. He collapsed beside me, pulling me into his side. His hand went to my wrist, fumbling with the buckle of his belt. It came free. He tossed the belt aside.

My arm felt tingly. He rubbed my wrist, his thumb stroking over the faint red mark.

“Okay?” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, nuzzling my face into his chest. It was damp with sweat. He smelled incredible.

He held me, one arm around me, his other hand stroking my hair. The silence this time wasn’t empty. It was full. Sated.

“You learn fast, wife,” he said after a while, a hint of a smile in his voice. He kissed the top of my head.

My eyes felt heavy. My body ached in a way that was exquisitely pleasant. The distance, the fear, the polite silences… they felt a lifetime away. This man, Dante, my husband… he wasn’t the stranger I’d feared. He was… more. So much more. And he was mine. In the most elemental, undeniable way.

I thought of Gabriella’s advice. Show him you’re not a damn porcelain doll.
I think, maybe, he’d just shown me the same thing. And in doing so, he’d shattered the doll and found something else entirely. Something he wanted. Something I was finally, terrifyingly, joyfully, beginning to understand myself.

A small, tired smile touched my lips. Yeah. He’d teach me. Every way. Every breath.
And I, apparently, was a very eager student.

My fingers found his, lacing through them. His grip tightened.
The night wasn’t over. I had a feeling the lessons were just beginning.

And for the first time in a very long time, I wasn’t afraid.
I was… anticipating.

With every single, humming, deliciously sore inch of my body.