49.
The car door opened with a soft, hydraulic hiss.
Dante stepped out first. The chilled night air kissed his cheekbones, but nothing about him wavered.
His jaw was locked. His shoulders broad and unmoving, draped in matte black that reflected no light.
The gravel crunched beneath his boots.
Then he turned, peering into the backseat.
She lay there like a dream barely clinging to reality.
Isolde.
Her garnet dress was wrinkled from dancing, her legs curled slightly, one bare foot hanging over the edge of the seat.
Her lashes fanned across flushed cheeks.
A wine-red smudge blurred the corner of her mouth.
Her necklace—a thin chain with obsidian and gold—had slipped sideways across her collarbone.
She blinked once. “Are you gonna carry me again?” she whispered, voice thick with sleep and champagne.
Dante didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
He leaned in and lifted her gently, her limbs folding against him like she belonged nowhere else.
She giggled into his chest. “You’re so strong. You smell like... expensive.”
He said nothing, but his grip tightened slightly.
Inside the estate, the lights were low. The chandelier cast gold arcs onto the black marble as he moved.
The guards vanished. No one followed.
He carried her up the grand staircase. Slowly. Deliberately. Her breath was warm on his throat.
“Dante,” she murmured, half-asleep.
“Yes?”
“Did you really shoot them?”
“Yes.” He replied casually.
“That’s so romantic…”
He exhaled through his nose. His arm curled tighter beneath her thighs.
Her skin was flushed and delicate, her body soft, vulnerable—his.
He entered the master suite and kicked the door shut.
The sheets, black as midnight, were smoothed across the bed like temptation.
He set her down carefully.
She flopped back dramatically and laughed “My legs feel like jelly. Jelly in high heels. That’s funny.”
He raised a brow.
She smiled at him. “You...k..know...you.. have beautiful eyes,” she whispered.
He laughed. Bitter. Soft. “No one’s ever called me beautiful and lived to repeat it.”
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. “Well, I’m your wife. You can’t kill me. It’s illegal.”
She then sat up, swaying slightly.
Her hair had fallen fully loose now, cascading down her back and shoulders like ink. “You didn’t dance with me,” she pouted.
“You were dancing for the whole room.”
“But I wanted to dance with you. That’s different.” She explained.
He stepped forward. Slowly. Like a panther stalking the softest prey. “Is it?”
She nodded, reaching up clumsily for his tie. She missed.
He caught her wrist before she fell. “Why do you always look at me like you want to devour me?” she whispered.
“Because I do.”
Then he kissed her.
Hard. Claiming.
She gasped and melted into it. Her fingers curled in his collar, clinging to him.
His mouth claimed hers, and she whimpered into it. Her fingers tangled in his hair. Her body pressed closer.
He stood with her in his arms again and tossed her gently onto the bed.
She bounced, giggling.
He crawled over her, bracing his weight on either side. “Do you know what it does to me when other men look at you?” he asked, teeth gritted.
She blinked up, dazed and glowing. “No... but I liked the way you shot them.”
He growled. “Say that again.”
She arched, arms over her head. “I liked the way you shot them. You looked so... WOW.”
He then stepped back to remove his coat, then unbuttoned his shirt one slow inch at a time.
She watched with wide eyes, her breath catching.
“You’re so... dangerous-looking.”
“And you,” he said, stepping out of his slacks, “are going to beg me to stop when it’s already too late.”
He joined her on the bed, pulling her onto his lap.
She straddled him without hesitation, giggling into his shoulder. “I feel dizzy.”
“Good.”
He pushed the dress off her shoulders.
The fabric slid down her arms, revealing bare skin flushed with warmth.
His mouth found her collarbone.
Then her throat.
Then her lips.
She moaned softly, fingers trembling on his chest.
He moved slowly. Worshipfully. Dark eyes drinking her in. “I should lock you away,” he said. “Keep you from ever being seen.”
“But then I wouldn’t get to dance,” she teased.
“No,” he said, “you’d only dance for me. In private. Like this.”
He kissed down her stomach.
She arched. “Dante…”
His hands gripped her hips. His mouth was heat. Worship. Obsession.
She cried out, fingers fisting the sheets.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. He tasted every tremble, every gasp. Until she was shaking.
When she collapsed back against the pillows, he kissed his way back to her mouth.
She stirred again. “Wait... wait...”
Dante froze, still watching her beneath him. “What?”
She grinned lazily. “I forgot... I wanted to dance again.”
He blinked. “Now?”
“Yes,” she said, pushing at his chest. “Now. I wanna show you my bed-dancing.”
She sat up and stood on the bed unsteadily, arms lifted like a ballerina. The dress slipped further off one shoulder.
Her hair was a black waterfall around her shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide with playful mischief.
She twirled once, stumbled, giggled. “Ta-da!”
Dante watched her, expression unreadable, his gaze black and sharp. “You’re insane,” he murmured. “And I like it.”
She pointed a finger at him. “You! Sit. You’re gonna be my prince. But like... evil prince. Who dances.”
He tilted his head.
She tried to pull him to stand on the bed with her.
He didn’t move. “Fine,” she huffed, pouting. “You’re not fun.”
He smiled slowly. Darkly. “You want to dance for me, little dove?”
She blinked. Nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Then dance."
Then she spun.
The hem of her dress lifted with each twirl. Her bare legs flashed under the low firelight.
She stumbled again, and giggled. “You’re watching me.”
“Always.” He replied, watching her intensely.
Then, with terrifying speed, he stepped onto the bed, grabbed her hips, and pulled her down.
She shrieked—laughing—into his chest.
He pinned her. “Enough dancing.”
She wriggled beneath him. “You’re not gonna arrest me, are you, Officer Dante?”
He let out a sharp laugh. “No,” he murmured, lips grazing her ear. “I’m going to discipline you.”
Then he kissed her again—hard, deep, endless and she melted under him, laughing breathlessly, until the dancing turned to trembling.
Isolde lay beneath him, hair scattered like ink across the pillow, cheeks flushed, lips parted and glossy from his kiss.
Her chest rose and fell with uneven breath, a faint hiccup slipping out as she giggled.
“I think…” she whispered, reaching up to brush his cheek, “I think this is my new favorite dance floor.”
Dante raised an eyebrow, shadow and firelight curling across his sharp jawline.
“You’re drunk,” he said softly, yet possessively. “And dangerous when you’re like this.”
She grinned and arched her back just slightly, teasing, playful. “No, you’re dangerous. I’m adorable.”
“You’re adorably mine,” he corrected, gripping her thigh and sliding his hand slowly up to her waist. “Which means this little performance—every movement, every moan, every breath—is mine to command.”
She wriggled beneath him, letting her legs fall open just enough to tempt, to tease. “I want a dance,” she murmured. “A real one. A slow, dirty one.”
Dante’s breath caught, but he didn’t smile.
He watched her like she was prey—beautiful, tipsy prey wrapped in red velvet and innocence.
He let his hand drift over the curve of her hip, down her thigh, then up again—slow, controlling, dragging the heat with him.
She whimpered and whispered, “Please?”
With practiced precision, he adjusted her until she was straddling his hips again.
Her gown was pooled around her waist, her soft thighs pressing against his torso.
She braced her hands on his chest and gave a slow, awkward roll of her hips.
It was clumsy.
And it was perfect.
She blushed, but her giggle melted into a gasp when he caught her waist and guided her.
“No rush,” he said, voice like gravel dipped in wine.
Their rhythm began to build — her body gliding against his, smooth and hot, lips parted in breathy whimpers, and eyes fluttering as her fingers dug into his shoulders.
She rocked above him, finding the pace between playful and desperate.
He let her lead—for a moment. Watching her, obsessed.
“Dante,” she whispered. “It feels so…”
He silenced her with a kiss.
His hand slid up her back, anchoring her to him, as his other hand pressed her hips down harder, grinding her against him until she cried out softly.
“Don’t stop,” she breathed.
“I won’t,” he said against her lips, “but only because you beg so sweetly.”
The heat between them turned molten—her movements instinctive, his control slipping into a low, dominant rhythm as he took over.
Each roll of her hips now met with his own, slow and firm, until they were moving like they were built for this. For each other.
Her head fell forward, mouth open against his neck.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispered, voice trembling now too.
She barely managed to say it: “I’m yours. Always. Please don’t stop…”
He grunted low in his chest, the sound primal.
The bed shifted with their motion, breaths tangled, sweat blooming between them as the dance turned messier, rougher—yet tender in its intensity.
Her soft gasps met his whispered curses.
Her fingers clutched his hair, his back, anything to keep her grounded while he carried her into the spiral they both couldn’t come back from.
When she finally collapsed against him, shaking, he cradled her head to his shoulder, pressing a long kiss to her temple.
She murmured, half-asleep, “That was the best dance…”
He ran his fingers through her damp hair, possessive and oddly gentle.
“I’m not drunk anymore,” she whispered.
He brushed his knuckles down her spine.
“No,” he said. “You’re high on me now.”
And she was.
Hopelessly.