Chapter 16 Dante
DANTE
Aleksandr and I are standing near the gallery, half watching the crowd, half pretending not to size each other up, when Adriana walks past us. She looks determined, focused on the exit, not even glancing my way.
“Adriana,” I call after her.
She doesn’t even turn her head. I watch her disappear into the crowd, the back of her dress catching the light for just a second.
Aleksandr follows my gaze, that smug little grin forming on his lips. “She always leave parties early, or just the ones with you in them?”
I give him a flat look. “She’s not your business.”
He shrugs, rolling his shoulders. “I didn’t say she was. But if she were mine, I’d make sure she wasn’t running off alone.”
The dig lands, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Before I can reply, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
It’s Oleg: Boss. Mrs. Volkova says she isn’t feeling well, wants to go home. Should I let her?
I glance again at the door, but she’s already gone.
Yeah. Take her home.
Aleksandr raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “See? If you blink, you’ll miss her.”
I force a smile. “She knows how to take care of herself.”
He clinks his glass against mine. “Let’s hope so. Otherwise, these parties get awfully dull.”
He turns away before I can answer, already moving toward the bar. For a moment, I just stand there, hands in my pockets, trying not to show that I care more than I should.
All I can think about is her—walking out on her own, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the questions in her eyes.
She’s up to some kind of trouble; I can feel it.
I try to focus on the noise and the networking, but my mind keeps drifting back to Adriana. I can’t help it. I picture her slipping out the door, shoulders tense, jaw set—like she was running from something, or maybe toward it.
I’m done. Whatever this party was supposed to be, it’s over for me.
I set down my half-empty drink and start for the door. Aleksandr catches my movement, one eyebrow raised, that sly grin back in place. “Early night, Volkov?”
“Something like that,” I mutter.
He smirks. “Send her my regards.”
I don’t give him the pleasure of a response. I make my way toward the main entrance, but before I can slip out, my father’s chair blocks my path. His aide stands nearby, watching for any sign of trouble.
“You’re leaving early?” he says quietly, just the faintest edge in his voice. “Your wife can’t handle the evening?”
I keep my tone neutral. “She wasn’t feeling well.”
He lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re not a boy anymore, Dante. She’s your responsibility. Duty is not a coat you take off when it gets uncomfortable.”
“I know,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
He fixes me with a look that’s part warning, part plea. “Don’t forget why you’re here. The family comes first. Your marriage is not just about you.”
I nod, jaw tight. “I won’t forget.”
He gestures toward the party, the lights, the music, as if all of it means something deeper. “Go home, then. Make sure she knows where she stands.”
For a second, it almost sounds like advice. But I know exactly what it means. The way he kept my mom in line, his words always a threat.
I don’t even know how I get home. The car practically drives itself. I tell myself I just need space, but the truth is simpler and far more dangerous—I need to see her.
Oleg looks startled when I walk through the door, like he wasn’t expecting me back tonight. I keep my voice low. “Where’s Adriana?”
He hesitates, then points upstairs.
My boots are silent on the steps, but my pulse hammers in my ears. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say to her, what excuse I’ll make for showing up like this. All I know is I can’t stay away.
I reach her door, turn the handle, and step inside.
She’s barefoot, hair mussed, cheeks flushed like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t. I lean against the frame, my gaze dragging over every detail—those bare feet, that loose strand of hair brushing her throat, the way her lips part when she sees me.
“What are you doing here?” she whispers.
I let my eyes linger, taking her in like I own her. My voice comes out low, rougher than I mean it to. “When else am I going to find this house empty, except for you?”
Heat flares between us, sharp and electric. I feel it in my chest, in my cock, in every breath I take.
I let the door fall shut behind me. The click is soft, but it feels like locking a cage.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air is heavy, charged, the kind of silence that could break either way.
I can see it in her—the defiance, the fear, the want.
She looks at me like she knows I’m seconds from losing control, and for the first time all night, I don’t care if she catches me in it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers. Her voice shakes, betraying her.
I feel the corner of my mouth curve into a slow, hungry smile. “Convince me to leave.”
And God help me, I pray she doesn’t.
I push off the door and cross the room in three slow steps that feel like a free fall. She doesn’t move. Her breath stutters; that’s the only warning I get before I’m in her space, my hand at her jaw, my thumb skimming her lip.
“Last chance,” I murmur.
She tilts her chin up, eyes blazing. It’s a question and a challenge all at once.
I kiss her.
It detonates—hot, filthy, inevitable. Her mouth opens under mine and I take all of it, tongue sliding deep, the taste of her punching straight to my cock.
I walk her backward until her hips bump the desk; a couple of books skid and thump to the floor.
She fists my shirt and yanks, dragging me closer like I’m air and she’s drowning.
I palm her breast through the thin fabric of her dress, feel the nipple peak hard against my hand. She gasps into my mouth when I squeeze—yeah, there—and I roll it between my fingers until her spine arches and her chest presses into me like she’s begging.
I yank up her red dress and rip it open, practically tearing it apart to expose more of her skin. “My father might’ve meant to humiliate you,” I growl, “but I’ve been hard for you all night.”
“Dante—” she gasps as I kiss her.
“Fuck, your tits…” I rasp against her mouth, then drop my head and take one into my mouth.
Her breath breaks. I suck slow, then harder, tongue teasing the tip, my free hand sliding down her ribs, over her waist, slipping under her hem to the hot skin of her thigh.
She’s trembling, not from fear—never that—but from the same fever that’s burning me alive.
“Dante,” she whispers, wrecked.
“Say it’s okay,” I murmur against her nipple, looking up. “Tell me.”
Her eyes meet mine, dark and certain. “Yes.”
That single word ruins me.
I push her knees apart with one hand and stroke over her panties—soaked.
Christ. I hook the edge, slide my fingers in, and find heat and slick that makes my cock jerk.
I kiss her again as my fingers circle her clit, slow, mean, until she’s rocking into my hand.
Then I sink two fingers inside, palm grinding her clit as I fuck her with my hand.
She moans into my mouth, the sound small and filthy and perfect.
Her pulse hammers under my tongue where I kiss her throat.
She grabs my wrist and pushes for more. I give it to her—deeper, knuckles grazing, curling just right—and her whole body shivers.
I can’t stop looking at her. She’s flushed, lips swollen, one breast bared and slick from my mouth.
I want to throw her on the bed and wreck her, but I’m not losing this kiss, or this pace.
I rock my hips into her thigh; she feels my cock thick and angry behind my zipper and whimpers like she wants it inside now.
“Feel what you do to me,” I growl, taking her hand and dragging it to my fly.
She palms me through the fabric and I nearly come like a teenager.
I pop the button, shove the zipper down, and her fingers slide inside to wrap around me—hot, tentative for a heartbeat, then surer when I groan against her lips.
“Good girl,” I breathe. “Just like that.”
She strokes me while I work her, our rhythm syncing—my fingers stroking deep and grinding up, her fist gliding from the root to the sensitive head, wrist twisting just enough to make my vision haze.
I mouth her other tit, sucking greedily, teeth grazing until she jerks and gasps my name like a prayer.
“Come for me,” I tell her, voice ragged. “Soak my hand. I want to feel it.”
Her thighs clamp around my wrist, hips stuttering.
I switch the angle—curl and press—and she breaks, pulsing tight around my fingers, heat spilling over my hand.
The sight of her coming—head tipped back, lips parted, that choked little cry—snaps something in me.
I brace a forearm beside her head, thrust into her fist once, twice, and spill across her fingers and my own stomach with a guttural curse, crashing my mouth back to hers to swallow the sounds we’re both making.
For a long beat, all I hear is our breathing—harsh, uneven, greedy. I kiss her softer, licking into her mouth lazily while my fingers slide out of her and stroke slow through the aftershocks. She shivers and clutches my shirt, pulling me in like she can’t stand even an inch of space.
I lick my hand clean, watch her eyes go wide, then catch her wrist and suck her slick fingers into my mouth too. She watches, dazed, cheeks flushed, and I swear I feel her shudder again.
I kiss her softer, slower, letting the heat settle instead of flare. “Tell me,” I whisper against her mouth. “You want me?”
Her palm slides up my chest, fingers curling at my collar. “Yes,” she breathes. “I want your cock.”
Her words send a thrill down my spine.
I kiss her again, harder this time. Her lips part. Her nails bite my shoulders. “God…Dante.”
“Sweet girl,” I murmur, kissing her again as I bottom out. “Look at me.”