27. Dante
Dante
F or hours, I devour her. Every inch, every moan, every goddamn whimper.
I drink her in—her innocence. Committing it to memory the way one savors the fleeting taste of vintage scotch. In slow, sinful sips.
Yet somehow, I resist claiming her entirely.
For her sake as much as mine.
Even as her nails carve desperate tracks down my back, even as her pleas sear themselves into my bones with every kiss, lick, and taste, I hold back.
Willpower at its fucking finest. To my brothers, take notes.
And because she was sent straight from Heaven solely to torment me, she shifts position. Her soft curves straddling me with a devilish innocence that makes my chest tighten to the point of agony.
I throw on my boxers—flimsy fucking insurance. My self-control is snapping to oblivion. Especially when her nipple tastes like honey, and her curves are goddamn addiction.
She’s the Promised Land, and my dick is already carrying commandments.
“Take me,” she whispers against my lips.
“No,” I insist, my voice rough, throat strangled by raw fucking need.
Seriously, who the hell am I right now?
“How about just the tip?” she counters softly, eyes wide—equal parts na?ve lust and goddamn mischief.
Jesus Christ.
Just the tip?
Is she kidding me?
Or straight-up trying to kill me?
“It’s never just the tip,” I groan—fighting the urge to laugh… or maybe fucking cry.
Her pout threatens what little remains of my resistance. And those breasts? They’re fucking weaponized, breathtaking double-Ds strategically designed to obliterate my sanity.
With any other woman, it would’ve already happened.
And the second it was over, she’d be filed under fucked and forgotten well before sunrise.
It’s not just that none of them were virgins.
It’s that none of them were her.
Riley.
“Why not?” She asks.
Because you deserve more than a shattered heart.
And more than the fucking wreckage I’ll inevitably leave you with.
Goddammit, because you deserve…more.
“Because you’re not ready,” I say instead, and roll to my back.
I offer a concession, praying it’ll satisfy her. And distract me from how desperately I crave every sinful bite of her forbidden fruit. “I’ll give you anything else you want.”
Her eyes spark wickedly as she holds up those ridiculous bunny ears. “I want you…to wear these.”
What am I? A fucking furry? I glare, unmoved.
“Put them on,” she purrs sweetly, dangling those ridiculous bunny ears, “and let me straddle your face.”
I pretend to be unfazed, though my dick is already hard again. I arch an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Try again.”
She leans in close, breath warm against my ear, voice dripping mock reverence. “Put them on and let me straddle your face, Your Grace.”
Fuck. I’m doomed.
* * *
Eventually, spent and gloriously wrecked, she fell asleep curled into my side, breathing soft and even.
My heart thuds in quiet disbelief. I’ve spent hours drinking a potent cocktail of vulnerability and raw, fucking need, and somehow, I still can’t get enough.
I trace my thumb along her side, slow and deliberate, branding every delicate curve to memory.
Something dangerously close to tenderness unfurls in my chest. And no matter how much I want to fight it, I can’t.
So I give in.
Wrap myself around her.
And settle into this strange, quiet tether.
Utterly foreign.
Utterly perfect.
Utterly, undeniably… us.