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I clutch at the sheets, bunching the fabric between my fingers as Antonio’s fingers continue to work me open, and when he adds a third digit, the intensity of the pleasure and frustration becomes unbearable. I want to come so badly that I’m ready to do anything for it, but when my cocks tries to engorge and expand, the cage violently fights back.

“Please,” I choke out. “Please, I can’t take it anymore.”

“This is your punishment, little stripper,” he says, his voice a low purr.

He thrusts his fingers deeper, finding my prostrate again and again until my body begins to spasm and a sob tears out of my throat as I’m finally pushed over the edge. But instead of the familiar, euphoric wash of relief, I’m met with a blinding shockwave of white-hot agony, my head whipping from side to side against the pillow as I struggle to cope with the overwhelming clash of intense pleasure and crushing pain. The cage refuses to give my cock any room, but cum forces its way out anyway, pooling inside the tube and slowly leaking out through the opening at the tip.

I'm only just beginning to come back to myself when Antonio suddenly goes still. I blink through the blur of my tears and look up at him.

His jaw is clenched so hard that a muscle leaps in his cheek, and his head is tilted back slightly, exposing the strong line of his throat. His other hand that’s not buried inside me grips the edge of the mattress and his knuckles start to turn pale. He isn’t stroking himself, his cock is not even out, yet a low, ragged growl escapes him, and I watch in complete disbelief as his chest rises in uneven expansion, his entire body shuddering with a silent tremor that ripples right down to the fingers inside me.

Antonio is coming.

He is breaking completely, so obsessed with my submission and so consumed by me that he doesn’t even need to touch his cock to achieve orgasm. And for reasons I can't quite explain, seeing him like this sends a thrill through me. Despite how tired I am, I can’t suppress the little burst of satisfaction that comes with realising I have some power over him, too.

Antonio eventually recovers, his breathing gradually returning to normal as he withdraws his fingers from my hole and lowers my legs onto the mattress. He picks up the key and unlocks the cage, removing it before getting off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom. A moment later, he returns with a warm towel, which he hands to me, and I take it with a bewildered expression.

He then turns and leaves the room without a word.

Chapter

Fourteen

ALEX

Davide drives me home the next morning, and since I already know he isn't going to answer any of my questions, I don't bother asking him where Antonio is. I've learned from our previous encounters that trying to get information out of him is about as productive as having a conversation with a brick wall.

It's the second time I've slept over at the penthouse, and I haven't seen Antonio the following morning on either occasion, which makes me wonder whether he deliberately leaves before I wake up or if he has more important things to do than acknowledge my existence.

I spend most of the drive staring out the window, occasionally checking my phone and mentally going through everything I need to accomplish before the day is over. Thankfully, I don't have any classes today, which means I can finally finish the project Antonio so rudely interrupted yesterday. After that, I'm planning to visit Mom and spend some time with her.

If I'm lucky, I might even get to have a relatively normal day without any unexpected appearances from a brooding mafia heir, which would be a pleasant change of pace.

By the time Davide pulls up outside my apartment building, I've already worked out a rough schedule for the rest of my day, and I'm feeling reasonably optimistic about my chances of getting everything done. I thank him before climbing out of the car, although he only gives me a brief nod in response, and I make my way inside, fishing my keys out of my bag as I head toward our apartment.

When I unlock the front door and step inside, I stop so abruptly that I nearly trip over my own feet, and for several seconds, I stand in the doorway, staring at the living room while my brain struggles to make sense of what I'm seeing. I even glance at the number on the door behind me, half-convinced that I've somehow managed to let myself into someone else's apartment, but unless I've suddenly developed the ability to unlock random doors with my own key, this is definitely the right place.

It's just that absolutely nothing looks the way I remember it.

The first thing I notice is the couch, mostly because the old, faded monstrosity that used to occupy the middle of our living room has completely disappeared. In its place is a large sectional upholstered in a soft, cream-colored fabric, with deep cushions, wide armrests, and several neatly arranged throw pillows. A thick, pale rug stretches out beneath it, covering the worn patch of flooring I've been meaning to do something about for the past year, while a beautiful wooden coffee table with a smooth, polished surface sits in the center, decorated with a small ceramic bowl and a couple of books.

Our old coffee table, which had one permanently wobbly leg and a collection of stubborn water stains that no amount of scrubbing could remove, is nowhere to be seen, and neither is the mismatched armchair I picked up from a thrift store when we first moved in. Instead, two elegant accent chairs sit beside the couch, and a floor lamp stands in the corner.

Even the television has been replaced, with an enormous flat screen mounted on the wall and beneath it is a long, low entertainment console with a beautiful wood finish. I slowly step farther into the apartment, letting the door swing shut behind me as I take in the rest of the room.

The old, uneven paint has been replaced with a warm, creamy wallpaper that makes the entire living room feel brighter, and the cheap curtains I bought from a discount store have disappeared in favor of heavy, floor-length drapes that frame the windows beautifully. They're pulled back just enough to let the morning sunlight spill into the room.

There are framed paintings on the walls, and a couple of tall indoor plants positioned in corners. Even the light fixtures have been changed, with the old ceiling light replaced by a modern design.

I turn toward the wall beside the living room and nearly choke on my own saliva when I realize that the two flimsy shelves I assembled myself have been replaced by an entire wall of beautiful, custom-looking wooden bookshelves. They stretch almost all the way to the ceiling, with neatly arranged books occupying most of the space and a few small decorative pieces filling the gaps.

My books are still there, thank God, although someone has taken the liberty of arranging them far more neatly than I ever managed to. I stand in the middle of the living room, my bag still hanging from my shoulder, because as beautiful as everything looks, and as much as I would love to throw myself onto that ridiculously expensive couch and spend the next several hours enjoying my new surroundings, there's only one person I know who has both the money and the audacity to pull something like this off without bothering to ask for my permission first.

Antonio fucking Scalera.

And judging by the amount of money he must have spent transforming the place, I'm beginning to suspect that Antonio has a serious problem with the concept of doing things in moderation.

“Alexxxx,” Dylan sing-songs, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he appears from the direction of the kitchen, looking excited. “Your boyfriend redecorated!”