31. Dante
Chapter 31
Dante
The steering wheel yields beneath my grip as I take another turn, the Porsche’s tires creating the precise sound Frankie warned against. The black paparazzi SUV that’s been following us finally concedes defeat.
It’s a thrill driving a fast car with Reese in the passenger seat, pressing her nails into my thigh.
“I think we lost them.”
“Your driving is atrocious, Mr. Hastings,” Ramsey grumbles from the back seat. He’s folded himself into what can only be described as security guard origami, his knees practically touching his ears.
Reese’s laugh fills the car like sunshine. “Oh, come on, Ramsey! That was incredible!”
“Reckless.”
“We could always make you walk,” I offer, catching his glare in the rearview mirror. “Though watching you unfold might take us until next Tuesday.”
“We might need a crane and a team of engineers to extract you,” she teases.
“Or industrial lubricant,” he deadpans, the vein in his neck twitching. “Perhaps some prayer.”
“Look at you, making jokes!” Reese beams at him, and he smirks. The stoic bastard’s warming up to me, I can tell.
“But I have to be the annoying voice of reason here,” she says, scrunching her nose in that adorable way. “Why are we doing our best Fast & Furious impression?”
“The photographers already got what they needed at the beach—us running through that stunt routine in between shots. They ate it up. Why not get back to being just Reese and Dante?”
I’ve been mulling it over all day, staying away from the cameras. Coach made his point clear, and as much as I hate to admit it, he’s right about the optics. Ten years of fencing, and though I enjoy being seen with Reese, I need to think long term. I want back on the piste, and bad coverage is a liability I can’t afford. If Coach believes the press hurts my chances, then I need to stay as low-key as possible while still supporting Reese.
It’s all about playing the game we’ve set. Me showing up to her shoot to fit in some extra training? Perfect. Total marketing gold.
And Reese? When she dropped everything to work on her choreography with me. That’s the kind of thing that gets the committee excited—real wholesome, hero material.
But the committee’s so obsessed with their image that even taking her to a bar could blow everything up. Especially with the stunt I’m pulling by showing up to Em’s match. If they catch wind of that, it’s game over for the disciplinary review.
But fuck it. I’m done letting them control everything. I want one night—just one—where it’s us. No cameras, no bullshit. Is that too much to ask?
Reese gives me a skeptical look. “Mm-hmm, if you say so.”
“I want you all to myself tonight, before filming starts on Monday, and the only time I get to see you is during training and our scenes together. Marcus has already been emailing me daily with updates.”
“I’m sure we can sneak in some other training sessions too.” She giggles, touching the pearls around her neck. “But honestly, I do not mind a little spin in this Porsche. Yours?”
“Frankie’s. One of her babies. She treats them better than she treats me, honestly.”
“How many does she have?”
“God, I’ve lost count. But don’t worry, at the Hastings Gala, she’ll give you a detailed PowerPoint presentation about each one, complete with their birthdays and favorite motor oil.”
“I can’t wait to meet everyone,” she says quietly. Her fingers brush past the adorable headband she wore the first time I met her, searching for hair to twist.
She’s nervous. I am too, if I’m being honest. I’ve brought women home before, sure—the usual entourage that orbits around me. But Reese is different.
“You’ll love them, and they already love you. Brooklyn and Frankie haven’t stopped talking about your gifts.” I leave out how my sisters spent hours dissecting every detail of the package she sent: the autographed posters, Robyn Hood merchandise, even the signature Reese Sinclair cosmetics line. Their enthusiasm was endearing.
My gaze drifts to my forearm, where her signature from that night after Wizard Island has long since faded. I should have booked a tattoo appointment the next morning, should have made it permanent.
“Maybe that’s why Frankie let you borrow her car?” She nudges me. “Because I earned you some coveted big brother brownie points?”
“It helped. That, and I kind of just took it.” I laugh.
A week on set has turned her into something otherworldly, and it’s not just the photoshoot glow. She’s more at ease, wearing the same dress she wore in the picture she sent me from NOLA—I’m certain she wore it just to torment me.
“I’ve looked forward to seeing you,” I say.
“I can tell.” Her hand creeps up my thigh, thumb tracing the semi that’s been in my trousers since she got into the car. I grit my teeth, eyes locked on where her sundress hits just above her knee. She shifts, revealing more of her thigh, sending a pulse straight through me.
Ramsey’s grunt echoes from the back.
“We should invest in noise-cancelling headphones and a blindfold for our shadow,” I say, catching his reflection in the rearview. His scowl has evolved into an expression of disapproval that’s artistic.
So much for thinking he’s coming around.
“Oh, speaking of just taking things, I grabbed you something.” She rummages through her purse and pulls out a piece of fruit.
My eyebrows knit together. “An apple?”
“Not just any apple,” she says, all proud of herself. “It’s exactly like the one you had at the table read. Oh, wait.” She sinks her teeth into the red flesh. “Much better. Wanna share it?” She does her best impression of me.
“Such darling manners.” I laugh, snatch the apple from her hand, and take a loud, crisp bite—making a show of it—before handing it back to her.
She takes it, leaning in and taking another slow, deliberate bite. Her lips press along the apple.
Fucking hell. Add eating fruit to the list of things Reese can make erotic.
Silver Lake materializes before us, the streets alive with their usual nocturnal pulse. I slide to the front of the club, intent on getting inside before anyone notices us. I toss the keys to the valet.
The Velvet Mirage looms ahead, its imposing door wedged between the mundane facades of a bookstore and a laundromat—a secret hiding in plain sight.
Another taste of my world for my girl.
“This is…interesting,” she notes, taking in the black concrete block exterior. No windows, a silver reflective door that mirrors our figures standing together, and above it a marquee that glows with the words, Temptation awaits.
I don’t bother explaining. Some things are better discovered than described.
“Let me guess—this is your Virgil act?” she teases, nudging my shoulder. “Leading me through the gates of Hell?”
I grin at the reference. Of course she’d make the connection to my namesake’s Inferno . “Second circle. Lust,” I say, pausing for effect. “Though I promise it’s better than my predecessor’s version.”
“Well, Paolo and Francesca did get to spend eternity together. In some twisted, cruel way.”
“You know your Dante,” I say, impressed. “But I think we can do better than star-crossed lovers.”
“Oh yeah?”
“In our canto, we’ll make sure that breaking the rules leads to paradise instead of punishment,” I say, holding the door.
Inside, we step into darkness. A single amber bulb dangles over the hostess stand, barely penetrating the thick shadows. Heavy velvet curtains drape the walls, their presence more sensed than seen.
Beyond them, jazz music whispers of what’s to come, the main room still concealed behind another set of drapes. Reese takes in the mystery, her fingers trailing along the velvet rope that marks our path.
A hostess appears, graceful in a black dress. “Mr. Hastings, to what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Been a while. Wanted to check out how our lovely performers are getting on.”
“Of course. Phones,” she says, holding out a velvet pouch. “House rules.” We drop our phones in. “Follow me.”
She parts the long curtains, and Reese steps into a room made of dark cherry wood. Stained glass chandeliers from Morocco cast fractured colors across mirrored walls. Leather booths curve along the edges.
The jazz music thrums, bum, bum, bum.
Reese’s pupils dilate, flashing from me to the stage, where dancers’ heels clack.
Our booth sits at the edge of the stage, perfectly positioned, because that’s what you can buy here—perfect positions. Ramsey maintains his professional distance while a bottle of champagne arrives unordered.
“Dante Hastings, are we…?” She shuffles closer to me in the booth, like she’s scared of this place.
“Yes, Miss Sinclair?”
Her mouth stays open. “Are we at a sex club?”
“Not exactly.” I drop my hand to her thigh. “Though desire lingers in every shadow here. It’s more an exploration of what we deny ourselves.”
Reese gawks at the women on stage, who are peeling off their gloves in controlled longing.
“Burlesque,” I whisper into her hair.
The juxtaposition is exquisite. Her pristine sundress, innocent pink headband, the delicate pearl necklace against my ring. My cock stirs at the sight of her flushed.
“You like it?” I play with the edge of her dress, dying to touch her skin.
Reese peeks around the booth. “This is definitely on the list of things that might bring you bad press.”
“This place breeds discretion.” I pause. “I’m an investor, actually.”
“Really?” Her eyes go wide as I pour a glass of champagne. “What other secrets are you keeping in that portfolio of yours?”
I can’t explain it, but I’m eager to impress her.
“My money comes from the usual post-Olympic vanity projects—cologne campaigns, fashion lines—and my parents made sure each sibling received enough shares of Viggle that the returns alone mean none of us ever needs to work. But what really took off were some investments I made back in Princeton. Threw some money at a few brilliant nerds hunched over laptops. Turns out their caffeine-fueled coding sessions were worth something. I happened to have the cash and, let’s say, a talent for recognizing potential.”
“Oh, so that’s how you got into D&D?” she chuckles.
“The Princeton D&D sessions had their own particular rules. The dice determined things beyond mere combat rolls.” Another pause, deliberate this time. “Clothing was often the first casualty.”
“Do you miss being at those kinds of parties?” she asks, her voice steady but her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “With people who enjoy those kinds of things?”
The question hangs between us. What she’s really asking is clear: Am I enough to hold someone like you?
I look at her, considering lying.
I’ve always been good at that—saying what people want to hear. But with her, the thought of it makes my stomach turn. “That’s a complex question.”
“It’s actually pretty simple,” she counters, chin lifting. “I’m wondering what makes this different from your usual rotation.”
“Because you’re not in a rotation,” I say, too quickly, too defensively. I rake a hand through my hair, frustrated by my inability to articulate something that feels so obvious to me. “Look, before, everything was transactional. Even when I didn’t mean for it to be.”
“And now?” Her eyes are bright, challenging, but there’s vulnerability there too.
The real answer scares me. This isn’t about fucking or escaping. It’s about presence. When I’m with her, everything intensifies, expands. My feelings deepen with frightening clarity.
I need her. Not want— need .
The distinction matters.
There are parts of myself that never aligned properly before—fragments that existed without context, pieces I kept hidden. With her, these disjointed elements find coherence.
She sees me.
I recognize the banality of it.How utterly predictable it is for me to fall into the cliché I spent years avoiding. But perhaps clichés persist because they contain some essential truth, one that’s impossible to articulate without sounding trite.
We sit together in the semidarkness, her question hanging between us. I could deflect with charm, but I don’t. The truth is simpler and more complex than either of us is prepared to acknowledge.
“I used to accumulate things, experiences. People, sometimes. Now I want…what I’m trying to say is that it’s a different kind of wanting.” The words feel inadequate. “Because when you look at things, they become worth looking at again.”
“That might be the smoothest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Yeah, well. Smooth is what I do when I don’t care.” She lets me hold her hand under the table. “This is messier.”
“Messy looks good on you,” she says softly.
I kiss her, gently at first, then with more intent when she responds. When I pull back, the saxophone shifts to a more sensual tone. “Now, watch this part,” I murmur, turning her toward the stage as the lights dim around us.
A spotlight blooms across parting curtains, illuminating a tableau of half-naked, glimmering bodies adorned in fishnets and corsets. A woman in crimson steps forward, rolling her hips, as a man follows, shirtless and dragging his hand across her torso.
“I’ve never…” She gulps. “Never let myself be so…”
“Comfortable with your sexuality?”
“That.” Reese hides behind her champagne glass, her eyes shyly skittering across the dancers. She scoots forward, intrigued but terrified, like she’s walking on the edge of a mountain.“I wish I could be. Connect with that part of myself, you know? That piece of my life has always been repackaged and sold. It’s always been directed for an audience. I’ve never had control over it.”
“What’s stopping you from taking control right now?” I slowly move her hair aside, kissing along her neck. There’s the smell of magnolia on her skin, which kills my self-control.
“Dante,” she whispers, a warning and a desire.
“I’m serious. The only person who can dictate that part of you is you. In the private and public eye. Your sexuality is yours, Reese,” I remind her. “And it’s splendid.”
“You think I can do what they’re doing up there?”
“Why not? Tell me what you see,” I command, wanting her to use her words. “Don’t miss a detail.”
“They’re dancing,” she quavers, and my cock strains against my trousers.
“I think you can do better than that.” I move my hand up her thigh. “Who catches your eye?”
“They’re all…” She pauses, biting her lip. “The redhead.”
“Why?”
The woman slides down into a split, her nails trailing over her legs before she snaps her head back, looking directly at Reese.
“Because she’s moving like she knows every eye is on her. She moves like she’s the star.”
“And the rest?”
She inhales sharply. I touch the strand of pearls at her throat. I drag my tongue along the cool gems until I reach my silver ring.
“Behind her—oh—” Her composure breaks, and mine threatens to follow. “They dance like something from a dream.” My hand finds her thigh and travels higher and higher until I reach the layer of silk beneath her cotton sundress. Now what do we have here? “The one in leather, feathers, a chrome mask—”
“Go on.” The words come out strained. I’m achingly hard now, every nerve ending alive.
“The music…” She’s struggling to focus, and I’m struggling to not take her right here. “It’s like watching heartbeats.” My fingers trace higher, searching for whatever other surprises she’s keeping hidden. When my thumb finds its mark, I trace wet lace, not her regular cotton panties. “The dancer in black in those restraints, like you’ve said in the past, the control and surrender.”
In the mirrored wall beside us, I watch the performance reflected behind Reese’s silhouette.
“The m-music—” A dancer slowly peels away her corset, jeweled pasties catching the light. “It’s like watching sin made beautiful. Dante, please…”
“Tell me what it makes you want to do.”
“It’s…” She turns. “Pure want.” Her cheeks are flushed. “I want to be up there with them.”
My breath is shallow as I attempt the careful facade of control. “Do it.”
“I don’t know.” Her brown eyes contain multitudes—rebellion, desire, a hint of that competitive spirit I’ve grown to need like oxygen.“Is that even allowed?”
“It’s my club. The choice is all yours, Reese.”