Chapter 8 Dante
DANTE
I sit on the edge of the bed and work through updates on my phone. Security reports. A couple of messages from the docks. A brief note about Serrano that tells me nothing I didn’t already know. The noise helps. It keeps the night from getting inside my head.
The bathroom door opens.
Adriana steps out in a white robe, hair damp along her neck, skin still warm from steam. For a reason I cannot name, my breath catches. I turn the phone face down on the coverlet.
“Are they still there?” she asks.
I listen. The faint scrape of a chair. The soft drag of fabric. The old record ticking in the next room. “Yes,” I say. “They’re not leaving until they get something.”
“Something,” she repeats.
I keep my face calm, but the rest stays in my head. This isn’t a real tradition anymore. People with sense let it die. My father insisted. I know why. He wants the Petrovs small. That was the point from the start—not celebration, humiliation.
She tightens the belt of the robe. She doesn’t ask for comfort. Good. I am not the man to offer it.
“We can give them time and nothing else,” I say. “When it’s enough, I’ll send them away.”
“No,” she murmurs. “Let’s give them something.”
Before I can ask what she means, her fingers find the knot at her waist. She smirks—that slow, knowing curl of her lips—and the robe slides off her shoulders like water.
My throat goes dry.
The baby doll clings to her curves, sheer enough that I can see the swell of her tits, nipples pressing against the delicate fabric, the shadow between her thighs. The hem skims the tops of her legs, making me imagine what it would feel like to hook my fingers under it and drag it up.
My cock hardens instantly, pressing against my zipper.
She knows it too. Her eyes drop, catching the shape of me straining in my trousers, then lift again with a look that dares me to move first.
“Jesus, Adriana…” My voice comes out low, rough. I take a step toward her, my gaze locked on the way the thin straps frame her shoulders, the way her breasts shift with each slow breath.
I want to tear that flimsy thing off her. I want to push her down and make her forget why she even put it on.
She doesn’t back away. She just stands there, letting me look, letting the heat between us thicken until it’s almost painful. My fingers twitch with the urge to touch—to slide up her thigh, to palm her ass, to cup those perfect tits and feel her gasp against my mouth.
I don’t realize I’ve moved until my hand is on her hip and I’m pulling her into me, the baby doll brushing my cock through the thin barrier of my pants.
“You’re playing with fire,” I murmur against her ear.
“You wanted a spectacle, right?” she says.
I shake my head, but I don’t speak. This isn’t how I wanted it.
My hand slides from her hip down over the curve of her ass, the sheer fabric of the baby doll whispering under my palm. I squeeze gently, my other hand drifting up her side, my thumb brushing just under the swell of her breast.
She inhales sharply and stills.
Her eyes flick to mine—not cold, not rejecting, but uncertain. Like she’s standing on the edge of something she knows she can’t come back from.
For a beat, I hold still. My thumb draws slow circles on her skin, giving her room to pull away if she wants. “Adriana,” I murmur, “tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t.
Instead, she bites her lip, gaze dropping to where my chest rises and falls against hers. I feel her soften just a fraction, that guarded tension loosening under my touch.
I let my hand trail upward, over the lace cup until my fingers brush her nipple through the thin fabric. She shivers.
“Look at me,” I say, and when her eyes meet mine, the hesitation is still there…but so is the heat.
I lean in, brushing my lips against hers—not taking, not demanding, just giving her the choice. She closes the distance herself, kissing me softly at first, then with more urgency as my thumb teases her nipple in slow, lazy strokes.
The tiny sound she makes against my mouth—that soft, helpless whimper—has my cock throbbing. Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer, and that’s when I know the hesitation is gone.
Her mouth is warm against mine, but it’s not enough. I want her under me, spread out where I can see every inch of her. Without breaking the kiss, I slip an arm under her thighs, another around her back, and lift her.
She gasps, breaking the kiss. “Dante—”
“Shh.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. She’s lighter than I expect, soft in my arms, the baby doll brushing against my wrist as I carry her across the room.
Her eyes search mine, like she can’t quite believe I want her this badly. That I’m this gone for her.
I set her down on the bed, slow, letting her sink into the covers. The hem of the baby doll rides up her thighs, and my gaze catches on the bare skin between them. My cock pulses hard, demanding I get between her legs and taste her, claim her.
She props herself on her elbows, watching me, still looking like she’s trying to figure out what exactly she’s started.
I climb onto the bed, caging her in with my arms. “You have no idea,” I tell her, my voice low, “how hard I am for you right now.”
Her lips part, just slightly, and that small flicker of surprise in her eyes makes me want to show her—with my mouth, my hands, my cock—exactly how much I mean it.
I dip my head, kissing the side of her neck, my hand sliding up her thigh, feeling the heat radiating from her core.
“Dante…” she whispers, like it’s half a warning and half a plea.
Her thighs tense under my hand, but she doesn’t stop me. I ease her legs apart, slow, my palm stroking the smooth skin inside until my fingertips meet heat.
The lace is damp.
I grin against her neck, breathing her in. “Already wet for me,” I murmur, dragging my knuckles lightly over her slit.
She lets out the smallest gasp, her hips shifting like she’s trying not to push into my hand. I hook a finger in the lace and slide it aside, and fuck—she’s glistening, the scent of her hitting me hard enough that my cock throbs.
I lower myself, kissing my way down her chest, over her stomach, until my mouth is just above where I want it to be. She watches me with wide eyes, still looking like she’s not sure she’s ready, until my tongue slides over her, slow and deep.
Her back arches, a sharp breath hissing through her teeth.
I do it again, savoring the taste of her, my hands gripping her thighs to keep her open for me. Every flick of my tongue draws another soft sound from her lips, each one breaking a little more of her composure.
When I suck her clit into my mouth, her hand shoots to my hair, fingers tangling hard. “Dante—”
I look up at her, my mouth still working her, and the sight of her flushed and panting nearly undoes me.
I slip a finger inside her, slow, feeling her tight walls clamp down around me. Then another, curling just right, while my tongue works faster. Her hips start to move against my mouth, chasing it, her breaths coming in short, desperate bursts.
“Let go for me,” I tell her, my voice vibrating against her. “I want to feel you come on my tongue.”
Like an obedient little pet, she lets herself go, her thighs clenching around my head as I eat her through it.
When I finally pull back, my chin is wet, my cock straining painfully against my zipper. She’s flushed, breathing hard, her nipples tight under the thin straps of the baby doll.
I crawl up over her, kissing her deeply so she can taste herself on my tongue. My hand finds my zipper, dragging it down, freeing my cock. The head brushes her thigh, and I swear I feel her shiver.
I line myself up, the tip pressing against her entrance—
“Wait.”
It’s barely more than a whisper, but I freeze instantly. Her eyes are wide again, like they were earlier, that same flicker of uncertainty breaking through the haze of lust.
I hold still, my hand braced beside her head, my cock throbbing but unmoving. I search her face for a long second, then lean down to kiss her temple.
“Alright,” I murmur. “We won’t.”
Before she can say anything, I reach over to the nightstand, grab the small knife I keep there, and prick the side of my hand. Just enough to make a few dark drops well up.
I let them fall onto the white sheet beside her hip.
Her eyes widen. “Dante…”
I smirk, tucking the blade away and kissing her again, softer this time. “That should satisfy them.”
I tuck myself back into my trousers, the ache between my legs still heavy, and glance at the wall. I know they’re listening. Hell, I made sure they’d have something to hear. None of it was fake—her soft cries, the way she gasped my name…still echoing in my head like a song I can’t stop playing.
I knock twice against the wall—the signal they’ve been waiting for—and pull on my shirt.
When I open the door, the cool air from the hallway hits me. My family is there, just like I knew they would be.
My father stands front and center, arms crossed, a rare hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Good,” he says simply, with a small nod that means more than any speech could.
My uncles crowd in behind him, clapping me on the back, offering crude congratulations that I barely hear. I keep my expression easy, maybe even a little smug, though my mind is still on her—the taste of her, the way she trembled under my mouth.
I glance over my shoulder, into the room.
Adriana is sitting on the bed, the baby doll still clinging to her curves, the white sheet pulled around her in modesty. Her hair’s mussed, cheeks flushed, lips parted. She just stares at me, silent, like she’s not sure whether to hate me or…something else.
I give her one last look before I turn back to the hallway. My family is still talking around me, but the only thing I can hear is the sound of her moans, playing over and over in my head.
I stand there in the hallway, letting them slap my back, letting them believe what they want. My father’s pleased look is worth more to them than the truth—and the truth is, if I’d taken her, it wouldn’t have been for their damn satisfaction.
I can still see her in my mind—sheet clutched to her chest, eyes fixed on me like she’s trying to read something I’ll never say out loud. Not hate, not exactly. Not trust either. Something in between.
My aunts step into the room, all smiles, acting like they’re just here to fuss over the bride.
One of them moves to Adriana, murmuring something I can’t hear as she helps her into a bathrobe, drawing it closed over the baby doll.
The other heads straight for the bed, gathering the stained sheet like it’s some holy relic.
Adriana keeps her eyes down, letting them guide her, her hair falling forward to shield her face. I watch the curve of her neck, the way her fingers clutch the robe at the collar.
I should look away. I don’t.
My jaw tightens, heat crawling under my skin. I haven’t wanted someone this violently in my life—not just to fuck, but to consume, to make mine in a way that leaves no room for anyone else.
And that scares the hell out of me.
Because wanting her like that…it’s dangerous. Not just for her. For me. For both of us.
One of my uncles leans back, swirling his glass. “Surprised she’s still pure, after being away so long,” he says with a knowing sneer. “Most girls would’ve found a way to…entertain themselves.”
Liam’s eyes flick to me before he answers. “I spoke to her brother,” he says. “He told me she went away to study.”
My father snorts into his glass. “Education,” he says, like the word itself leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Books don’t make a wife. She’ll learn quickly enough what her purpose is now.”
He turns his gaze on me, all weight and command. “You will show her her place, son. You will make sure she never forgets what this arrangement means.”
The whiskey suddenly tastes bitter in my mouth.
I give him a slow nod, because that’s what’s expected, but the words grind against something in me I can’t quite name. I can still see Adriana in that baby doll, clutching the robe, her eyes meeting mine for just a second before she looked away.
They want her to be a possession. I’m not sure I can see her that way anymore.
I take another drink, hiding my thoughts behind the rim of the glass, but the heat in my chest has nothing to do with the whiskey.