radicalducati Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Here’s a proofread version of your text with corrections for grammar, punctuation, flow, and clarity while preserving the original tone and intent:
---
Dante walked into the living room and glanced at his wristwatch. It was just a few minutes to 7 p.m., and Mireille should be ready by now.
She wasn’t in the living room, however, and for a moment, Dante couldn’t help but think she was avoiding him. He brushed the thought aside and climbed the stairs. Stopping at her door, he unlocked it with his fingerprint.
He pushed the door open and froze when he saw Mireille still lying on her bed, scrolling through her phone. She wasn’t ready—or even remotely trying to get ready.
“Princess,” he called, his tone sharp. “I asked you to be ready by 7 p.m.”
Mireille sat up on the bed, her expression indifferent. She had already decided she wasn’t going to follow Belinda’s advice—or any advice like it. Instead, she resolved to let things between her and Dante stay exactly as they were.
“You didn’t even ask if I *wanted* to go shopping,” she said pointedly. “I don’t want to.” She emphasized her final words, making her defiance clear.
Dante stared at her for a few seconds before his lips curled into a smirk.
“Do you want me to pick you up off that bed, rip those clothes off your body, bathe you, and dress you myself?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.
Mireille gulped, her mind betraying her as she visualized exactly what he’d just described.
“So,” Dante continued, leaning against the doorframe. “Which will it be? You getting up and doing all that yourself, or me doing it for you?”
Mireille glared at him—or at least, she tried to. But those gray eyes of his seemed to melt her resolve.
“I’m tired,” she said, softening her gaze. “I can’t go shopping tonight.”
She knew, somehow, that faking exhaustion would make him back off.
“What exactly were you doing all day?” Dante asked as he stepped into the room. With every step he took closer, Mireille’s breathing grew heavier.
“I worked out earlier, and I guess I overdid it. I’m just too stressed out, so I need to rest tonight,” she said, her tone steady.
Dante didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he sat down at the edge of her bed and studied her intently. His gaze was so intense it made her stomach twist into knots.
“Let me see your legs,” Dante said suddenly.
“Wh… what?” Mireille stammered, her brows furrowing in confusion.
“Your legs, princess,” he repeated, his tone slightly impatient.
Still bewildered, she stretched her legs toward him. Dante grabbed them and placed them on his thighs. The simple contact sent a wave of heat to Mireille’s cheeks, painting them pink.
Rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, Dante revealed a glimpse of the tattoo she had noticed earlier that morning. His veiny hands moved to her legs, and Mireille nearly jumped at the sensation of his touch.
“What are you doing?” she asked, grateful her voice didn’t betray how nervous she felt.
“Giving your tired legs a massage, princess,” he said casually.
Mireille groaned softly. “What can I do to make you stop calling me ‘princess’?”
“Become my queen,” Dante replied, his focus still on her legs.
Her heart skipped a beat, and her body froze. She stared at him, wide-eyed.
Dante chuckled at her reaction. “What? Princess can’t take a joke?”
He began running his hands over her right leg.
“You really don’t have to do this. I’ll be fine,” Mireille said, attempting to pull her legs away.
Dante, however, held her legs firmly in place. His expression hardened.
“Just relax and enjoy it, like a good girl should,” he said, his voice dropping an octave as he focused on the massage.
Mireille sighed in resignation and let him continue. It was just a massage, she told herself. Innocent, harmless. But barely a minute in, she realized there was nothing innocent about the way Dante’s strong hands moved over her skin.
His touch was firm yet gentle, creating an intoxicating contrast that sent shivers through her body. He ran his fingers through the gaps between her toes before sliding them down her arch. Mireille fought the urge to close her eyes as a wave of pleasure coursed through her.
“Close your eyes if you want to,” Dante said softly.
There was something so enchanting about his voice that she obeyed instinctively, her body melting into the mattress.
Dante’s eyes shifted to her face as his hands worked skillfully on her foot and toes. He glanced back at her legs, a sudden urge rising within him. He wanted to run his tongue along her skin. He had never thought of himself as someone with a foot fetish, but right now, holding her beautiful legs, he wondered.
He pressed his thumbs deeper into her calf, firm yet deliberate. Mireille’s body tensed in response. She was clearly enjoying it—perhaps too much.
Her lips parted, and her brows knit together. Dante cursed softly under his breath.
“Fuck,” he murmured. She was so sensitive, and it was driving him crazy.
Mireille let out a soft moan, barely audible, but it sent a jolt of heat straight to Dante’s groin.
He groaned quietly, struggling to maintain his composure. She looked utterly wrecked from nothing more than a massage, her back arching slightly as her hands gripped the sheets.
“It’s just a massage,” she told herself, trying to calm the storm inside her. But she couldn’t deny the pool of heat gathering between her thighs.
Her toes curled involuntarily, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She was close—too close. Could she really let herself orgasm from a massage? How would she ever face Dante afterward?
Desperately, Mireille prayed she could keep quiet and let it happen without him noticing.
“I can do this,” she thought. “I just have to stay quiet.”