2. Cassie
CASSIE
C ompletely and utterly lost.
His lips are soft but demanding, and he tastes like beer and something darker, something that makes my brain completely short-circuit.
Holy shit. Holy actual shit.
This is happening. This is really happening.
I’m making out with Dante Romano against my car like some horny teenager, and I don’t even care.
One of his hands tangles in my hair; the other presses against the small of my back, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.
This is insane. This is absolutely insane.
But God, he feels good.
I gasp against his mouth, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I’m clinging to his shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Which, let’s be honest, he probably is.
“You know,” I breathe when we break apart for air, “I don’t usually do this.”
“Do what?” His voice is rough, and his eyes are so dark they’re almost black.
“Make out with guys in parking lots. My track record with bad decisions is already pretty spectacular, but this feels like I’m reaching new heights of stupidity.”
He laughs—actually laughs—and the sound vibrates through his chest where I’m still pressed against him.
“Stupidity?”
“Oh yeah. Epic levels of dumb. I literally just got out of a marriage to a complete psychopath, and here I am, throwing myself at another dangerous man. I should probably have my head examined.”
Or maybe I should just shut up and enjoy this while it lasts.
“I’m not dangerous,” he says, but there’s something in his eyes that suggests otherwise.
“Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”
His mouth curves into a smile that makes me feel funny things. “Your Majesty.”
Oh, hell. If he keeps being charming, I’m going to do something really, really stupid.
Like beg him to take me right here, right now.
“Fuck, Cassie,” he groans against my lips. “You taste even better than I imagined.”
He imagined this? Oh, hell.
“Dante,” I breathe, not even sure what I’m asking for.
But he seems to know, because his hands are everywhere—sliding down my sides, gripping my hips, pressing me back against the car until I can feel every hard inch of him.
I should stop this. This is crazy. I don’t know this version of him. The boy I kissed seven years ago was sweet, almost hesitant. This man is something else entirely.
This man is dangerous.
And apparently, I’m into that.
His mouth trails down my neck, and I arch into him, chasing the heat. My hands find the hem of his shirt, and when I slide them underneath, his skin is hot and smooth and absolutely perfect.
“God, your hands,” he mutters against my throat.
“Is this really happening?” I ask, because, honestly, it feels like a dream. A really good dream.
“Do you want it to be?”
Yes, God, yes.
But instead of saying that, because I still have one functioning brain cell left, I say: “I don’t know what I want.”
Lie. Total lie. I know exactly what I want, and it’s standing right in front of me, with his hands on my hips and his mouth doing sinful things to my neck.
He pulls back to look at me, and his eyes are darker than I remember. “Then let me help you figure it out.”
His hands slide down to my thighs, and before I can process what’s happening, he’s lifting me onto the hood of my car.
“Dante,” I gasp, but it comes out more like a moan.
“Tell me to stop,” he says again, his hands bracketing my hips as he steps between my legs.
Stop? Are you insane?
“I can’t,” I whisper. “I should, but I can’t.”
“Good,” he growls, and then his mouth is on mine again.
This kiss is different—hungrier, more desperate. Like he’s been thinking about this for as long as I have. His hands roam everywhere, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to spontaneously combust right here in this parking lot.
This is so not me. I don’t do this. I don’t make out with guys on car hoods like some teenager. I’m twenty-six years old, for crying out loud.
But God, it feels so good to just... let go.
His mouth moves to my ear, and when he speaks, his voice is rough and low and absolutely devastating. “I’ve been thinking about this since the moment I saw you in that bar.”
Oh, hell. If he keeps talking like that, I’m going to do something really stupid. “Dante,” I breathe, my hands fisting in his shirt.
“Yeah?”
“This is crazy.”
“The best things usually are.”
And that’s when I completely lose my mind.
Because instead of pushing him away like a sane person would, I’m pulling him closer, wrapping my legs around his waist and kissing him like my life depends on it.
He groans into my mouth, and I can feel how much he wants this. How much he wants me.
God, when was the last time someone wanted me like this?
Never. The answer is never.
His hands slide under my shirt, and when his thumbs brush against my ribs, I arch into him with a gasp.
“So responsive,” he murmurs against my neck. “I love that.”
I love everything about this. Which is probably a problem.
But right now, I don’t care about problems. Right now, I just want to feel something other than fear and uncertainty and the crushing weight of my failed marriage.
Right now, I want to feel alive.
His hands find the hem of my shirt, tugging it up, and I raise my arms without thinking. The cool night air hits my skin, but I’m too far gone to care.
“Jesus, Cassie,” he breathes, his eyes dark with want as they roam over my body. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Beautiful. When was the last time someone called me beautiful and meant it?
His hands are everywhere—sliding over my stomach, my ribs, cupping my breasts through my bra until I’m gasping and arching back against the hood of my car.
This feels like more than just a hookup. This feels like something else entirely.
Which is dangerous thinking for a woman who’s supposed to be swearing off men entirely.
He unhooks my bra with practiced ease, and when it falls away, the look in his eyes makes my breath catch.
“Perfect,” he growls, and then his mouth is on my breast, tongue flicking over my nipple until I cry out.
Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
My hands tangle in his hair, holding him to me as he lavishes attention on my breasts. Every touch sends lightning straight to my core, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die from the pleasure.
“Dante, please,” I gasp, unsure of what I’m begging for.
“Please, what?” he asks against my skin.
“I need... I need...”
“Tell me, Cassie. Tell me what you need.”
You. I need you.
“More,” I whisper. “I need more.”
His hands slide down to my jeans, and I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs along with my panties. The metal of the car hood is cold against my bare skin, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except the way he’s looking at me.
Like I’m something precious. Something to be worshiped.
“Spread your legs for me,” he says, his voice rough with want.
I should be embarrassed. I should be mortified. I’m naked on the hood of my car in a public parking lot, for crying out loud.
But I’m not. I’m just... alive.
I do as he asks, spreading my legs wide, and the look he gives is so damn hot.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, and then he’s kneeling between my legs.
Oh, hell. This is really happening.
The first touch of his tongue against my core makes me arch off the hood with a cry. He chuckles against me; the vibration sends shockwaves through my body.
“Quiet, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Don’t want to get arrested.”
Arrested. Right. Because we’re in public. Because anyone could walk by and see us.
I should care about that. I really should.
But when he licks me again, slow and deliberate, all rational thought goes out the window.
He takes his time, building my pleasure with methodical precision. His tongue circles my clit, dips inside me, traces patterns that make my toes curl and my back arch.
“You taste so fucking good,” he groans against me. “Better than I imagined.”
He imagined this, too? God, what does that do to a girl’s ego?
His fingers join his tongue, sliding into me while his mouth works my clit, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming.
This is insane. This is absolutely insane.
And I never want it to stop.
“Dante,” I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair. “I’m going to?—”
“Come for me,” he commands against my skin. “Come on my tongue.”
And I do. Oh God, I do.
The orgasm hits me like a freight train, waves of pleasure crashing over me until I’m shaking and gasping and probably making too much noise for a public parking lot.
But I don’t care. I can’t care about anything except the way he’s making me feel.
He doesn’t stop until I’m boneless and spent, slumped back against the windshield of my car.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
He stands up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the sight of him—hair messed up from my fingers, lips swollen from kissing me, eyes dark with satisfaction—is almost enough to make me come again.
“We’re not done,” he says, his voice rough.
Good. God, please don’t let us be done.
He reaches for his belt, and I watch, mesmerized, as he unbuckles it. The sound of his zipper is loud in the quiet night.
And his cock? My mouth goes dry.
“You good, sweetheart?” He grins.
I somehow nod.
“Words, Cassie.”
“I’m fine,” I breathe. “Just…” I spread my legs, because what else is there to do?
Dante smiles and steps between my legs like he’s about to finish what he started, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he says, his forehead pressed against mine.
Change my mind? Is he insane?
“Shut up and fuck me, Romano.”
He grins—actually grins—and then he’s pushing into me, slow and steady, stretching me in the most delicious way.
Oh God. Oh God, he’s big.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips.
“You’re huge,” I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders.
He stills. “You okay?”
Okay? I’m better than okay. I’m transcendent.
“More,” I demand. “Give me more.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls back and thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt, and I see stars.
This is what I’ve been missing. This is what sex is supposed to feel like.
He sets a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, harder. The hood of my car creaks with every thrust, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except the way he feels inside me.
“God, Cassie,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good.”
He feels good too. He feels perfect.
My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans into my neck.
“Harder,” I whisper. “Please, harder.”
He obliges, pounding into me with a force that makes my eyes roll back. The angle is perfect, hitting that spot inside me that makes me see fireworks.
“You like that?” he growls against my ear.
“Yes,” I gasp. “God, yes.”
His hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit, and I nearly scream.
Too much. It’s too much.
But also not enough. Never enough.
“Come for me again,” he commands, his voice rough with exertion. “Come on my cock.”
And I do. Again. Harder than before.
This orgasm is different—deeper, more intense. It starts in my core and radiates outward until my whole body is shaking with it.
“Fuck, Cassie,” he snarls, his rhythm faltering. “You’re going to make me?—”
He thrusts and buries deep, chest heaving against my spine. He lets out a guttural moan as he spills inside me.
And, holy hell, I feel all of it.
The heat. The weight. The slickness of his cum. The ache that lingers in my bones and the softness of his breath against my neck, still panting.
Holy shit. Holy actual shit.
We stay like that for a moment, both breathing hard, his forehead pressed against mine.
What the hell just happened?
And why do I already want it to happen again?
He pulls out slowly, and I suddenly feel very naked and very exposed.
Reality is creeping back in.
I just had sex with Dante Romano on the hood of my car in a public parking lot.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He helps me down from the car, his hands gentle as he hands me my clothes.
“You okay?” he asks.
Am I okay? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
“Yeah,” I lie, pulling on my shirt. “I’m fine.”
I’m not fine. I’m the opposite of fine.
I’m in trouble.
We get dressed in silence, and when I’m finally clothed again, I don’t know what to say.
Thank you? That was great? See you around?
None of it seems adequate for what just happened.
“Cassie,” he starts, but I cut him off.
“This was...” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
“A mistake?” he suggests, and there’s something in his voice that makes my chest tight.
Was it a mistake? It felt pretty damn perfect to me.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
He steps closer, his hand cupping my cheek. “Hey. Look at me.”
I look at him, and those damn eyes are going to be the death of me.
“This wasn’t a mistake,” he says firmly. “Whatever this was, it wasn’t a mistake.”
God, I want to believe him.
But I’ve made so many mistakes already.
“I should go,” I whisper.
He nods, stepping back. “Drive safe.”
That’s it? Drive safe?
What did I expect? A declaration of love?
I get in my car, my hands shaking as I start the engine. Through the windshield, I can see him standing there, hands in his pockets, watching me.
Drive away, Cassie. Just drive away and pretend this never happened.
But I can’t. I can’t pretend that what just happened didn’t change everything.
I roll down the window. “Dante?”
“Yeah?”
“This stays between us, right?”
Something flickers across his face. “If that’s what you want.”
It’s not what I want. But it’s what I need.
“It is.”
He nods. “Drive safe, Cassie.”
And then I’m driving away, leaving him standing in that parking lot, and I already know I’m going to regret this.
All of it.
But especially the part where I drove away.