Chapter 18 Dante
DANTE
He should have walked out when she said she was closing.
Instead he sat there, elbows on the scarred bar, watching Maeve try to hold herself together with a rag and a straight spine.
She was all sharp cheekbones and clipped movements, short black hair mussed from the fight, lips set like she was holding back a storm.
The empty tavern felt too big around her.
The hearth clicked and settled. Snow pressed its cold face to the windows.
“Last chance,” she said softer this time but still not looking at him. “Go home.”
“No.”
Her eyes cut to him, gold sparking. “You like ignoring me.”
“I like being here,” he said. “With you.”
“Don’t make this about comfort.” She tossed the rag into the bucket and came around the bar. The scent of spiced honey and whiskey lifted with her, the one that always belonged to Maeve. She stopped two feet away. “You think you helped me tonight.”
“I know I did.”
“You also made a scene.”
“He was making one at your expense.” He stood, the stool scraping back. “I won’t apologize for putting my hands on you if it kept Hector from getting a show.”
She stepped closer until he could see the flecks of dark brown in her gold, the pupils blown wide. “Don’t touch me to prove a point.”
He swallowed, heat rising, anger mixing with something darker. “Then tell me not to.”
Her mouth parted. Silence pooled between them, heavy and charged.
His lion prowled, slow and sure, answering the restless hum he’d felt the second he stepped into Hollow Oak again.
Everything in him leaned toward her, toward the woman who started fights with a look and ended them with a single word.
“Say it,” he murmured. “Tell me not to.”
She lifted her chin. “You don’t give orders here.”
“Not trying to.” He eased closer, one step, then another, until her body heat touched his. “I’m asking.”
Her breath came quicker, the fine muscle at her jaw tight. “You want honesty, lion?” Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “I wanted to rip his throat out. I wanted to bite you for stopping me. I want—”
“What?” His voice roughened. He could feel the shape of her, all that small lethal grace, the lioness right there under the skin.
“I want to forget him,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I want something else to live in my head.”
His restraint frayed. “Take it.”
She moved first. Fingers hooked his shirt and hauled him down, mouth crashing into his like a challenge.
It was messy and hot, teeth clicking, breath stolen, anger kissing anger until it wasn’t anger anymore.
He caught her waist, lifted, pressed her back into the wall, wood thudding.
She made a sound that went straight through him, not pretty, not polite, and he answered with a low growl he didn’t try to hide.
“Dante,” she said against his mouth, warning and need in the same breath.
“Say stop and I stop,” he said, words scraping his throat. “Otherwise I’m going to give you exactly what you’re asking for.”
Her fingers speared his hair and tightened. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He took her at that. He kissed her the way he’d wanted to for years, the way he’d dreamed in lonely beds, all heat and claim and reverence rolled into one.
She kissed back like she was trying to fight and win and fall and land on her feet all at once.
The wall took her nails as she arched; he felt claw tips bite wood near his ear. Good. Let the place remember this.
He slid his hands under her shirt, palms meeting hot skin, the elegant lines of her back, the flex of muscle as she moved. She was lithe and lethal, and she was shaking a little now, not with fear, with restraint. He knew the feeling. His own control sat on a knife edge.
“Clothes,” she said, already pulling his shirt up. “Off.”
He stripped it fast, the tavern air cool on his skin.
Her gaze dragged over him, and he felt the heat of it everywhere on the broad chest, the scars, the ink over his ribs, the strength earned by work and fights he’d won and lost. “Still arrogant,” she said, but her hands flattened on his chest like she approved of every inch.
“You still gorgeous,” he said, voice gone quiet with truth.
She snorted, then tugged her sweater over her head, dark bra under, skin the color of toasted sugar, the soft slope of her shoulder begging for teeth. He bent and put his mouth there, open and slow. She sucked in a breath and pressed closer.
“Not gentle,” she said into his hair.
“Got it.” He bit. Not to mark, not yet, but enough to make her gasp and clutch him harder. Her lioness flashed hot against him. His answered, pleased. They kissed again, deeper, hungrier, while his hands found the closure of her jeans. She shoved at his belt like it insulted her.
“Off,” she demanded.
“Bossy,” he said, grinning against her mouth.
“Shut up,” she said, smiling back, and he could have drowned in that small curve of her lips. He shucked his belt and jeans and boxers in quick motions. His cock sprang free, hard and heavy, evidence of exactly how far gone he was. Her eyes flicked down and went darker.
“Yeah,” he said, hand braced by her head. “All for you.”
She slid her palm along his length, slow, testing, possessive. He groaned, head thunking softly against the wall, whole body pushing into her touch without shame. “You talk big,” she said, stroking once more, firmer. “You always did.”
“I always backed it up.” He caught her wrist, brought her fingers to his mouth, kissed the tips, then set them on his chest. “Up.” He gathered her thighs and lifted.
She wrapped around him instinctively, strong legs clamping his hips, heels locking at his back.
Her short hair brushed his cheek; her breath warmed his ear.
“You’re going to break a chair,” she said, voice rough with pleasure.
“Good thing this is a wall,” he said, and pinned her more securely, one arm a steel bar under her, the other hand sliding into her pants, under the edge of silk. He found slick heat and couldn’t hold back the sound that tore out of him. “Fuck, Maeve.”
“Don’t get sentimental,” she said, but her head tipped back when he stroked her, throat bared.
He took advantage, mouth on the long line there, tongue and teeth, hand working between her legs.
Her pussy was hot and wet around his fingers, greedy, pulsing.
He circled her clit with the pad of his thumb, slow, then faster when she swore softly and arched into his hand.
“Tell me,” he said against her skin. “Tell me what you want.”
“You.” She clenched around his fingers, voice breaking just enough to ruin him. “Right now.”
“Say please.” He didn’t need the word, not really. He wanted to hear it in her mouth.
She laughed, breathless and wicked. “In your dreams.”
He grinned, more feral than amused, and slid two fingers inside her, curved just so. She gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Dante.”
“That’s fine too.” He set a rhythm that made her shiver, thumb teasing, fingers pushing her open, wanting her messy and unguarded. Her scent bloomed, sweet and spiced, the scent of a lioness on the edge. He felt the Veil’s hum ride his skin, felt the tavern hold them like a secret.
“More,” she said, the word a command. He gave it, adding a third finger, slow to let her take it, loving the way she swore and bit his shoulder, loving the way she moved, meeting every curl of his hand with a roll of her hips that said she knew her body and wanted everything.
He worked her until her breath fractured, until the muscles in her belly went tight under his palm, until she broke against his fingers with a low, fierce sound that made his lion bare its teeth in satisfaction.
He kept his hand on her, gentling, riding her through it, until the fine tremors eased. She blinked, hair sticking adorably to her temple, lips parted, eyes molten. “Convinced?” he asked softly.
“Shut up,” she said again, but there was no bite in it. She tugged his head down and kissed him hard. “Get the condom.”
He fumbled his wallet out of his jeans on the floor, mouth still chasing hers, and tore the packet with his teeth. She watched him roll it on, hunger and challenge sparking again. “You going to gloat?” she asked.
“Later.” He lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock sliding through her slick, and every thought burned to ash.
He thrust in slow, watching her face as he filled her, inch by inch, not stopping until her body took all of him and the snug heat squeezed him so tight he had to brace both hands on the wall to keep from losing it.
“Maeve,” he managed. “Tell me it’s okay.”
Her eyes lifted to his, bare and bright and wild. “Do it.”
He did. He set a rhythm that matched the furious beat in his blood, hips rolling, driving into her, pulling back, driving again.
She rode him back, no softness, all power and want, the slap of skin a rude counterpoint to the quiet tavern.
Her breath came hot against his mouth; his came rough against her ear.
He kissed whatever he could reach—her throat, her cheek, the corner of her mouth—like a starving man tasting spring.
“Harder,” she said. “Stop thinking.”
He laughed and obeyed, grip tightening on her thigh, the other hand braced by her head.
He moved like he wanted to claim the wall, the room, the night, and she met him beat for beat, fingers carving crescent moons in his shoulders, knees squeezing his ribs.
They knocked a framed photo a little crooked.
He didn’t care. Let the memory hang real.
“Talk to me,” she said, voice breaking again, not fragile, honest. “Tell me.”
“That you’re perfect like this,” he said, thrust catching, eyes locked to hers. “That I’ve wanted you for years. That your pussy is so good I’m forgetting my own name.”
She laughed, then choked on a moan when he changed the angle and hit that place inside that made her go tight around him. “There,” she said, urgent. “Do that again.”
He did, over and over, hips grinding, giving her exactly what she asked for, taking everything she gave back.
The lion in him purred deep and low, pleased with the fight and the surrender braided together.
Heat crawled up his spine, gathered at the base of his skull, pushed down his muscles in pulses.
He felt her getting close again, the flutter around him, the telltale grip of her hands.
“Come for me,” he said into her ear, voice shaking. “Come on, Maeve. Give it to me.”
She cursed, beautiful and raw, and shattered around him, body clamping hard, head tipping back against the wall.
He held her through it, thrusting once more, twice, then gave up any thought of control and followed, groaning her name as pleasure tore him open.
He pumped into the condom, hands full of lioness, everything in him lit in gold.
They stayed like that, pressed to the wall, panting, sweat cooling on skin, the world slowly coming back into focus. The hearth gave a soft crack. Snow whispered against the windows. The Veil’s hum eased, satisfied.
He lowered her carefully, making sure she was steady before he pulled out and tied off the condom. He stepped back, chest heaving, and looked at her.
She looked back, face flushed, hair wild, lips kiss-bruised. Pride lived there in her eyes. Gratitude maybe. Something softer that scared him more than any fight.
“Maeve—”
“Don’t,” she said, voice even. She bent, picked up her sweater, and pulled it on with quick, efficient movements. “This was not a conversation.”
“You want me to pretend that didn’t happen?”
“I want you to lock up,” she said, buttoning her jeans, not meeting his eyes now. “Make sure the back door’s secure. Put a chair under the front handle for me.”
“Maeve.” He took a step, stopped when she shot him a look that could slice bark.
“Don’t make this harder.” She grabbed her coat from the peg, slid it on, and finally looked up. Something vulnerable flickered and vanished. “I needed that.”
“I know. And I needed you.”
She flinched, almost invisible. Then the wall was back in place, the queen behind her bar. “Lock up, Dante.”
He watched her head for the door. Snow waited on the other side, and the square, and the path toward her little place up the lane. He wanted to follow. He wanted to pull her back and start again, slower, deeper, sweeter. He wanted too much.
She paused with her hand on the latch and spoke without turning. “Don’t read into it.”
“Too late.”
“Then that’s your problem.” She opened the door. Cold rushed in. She stepped into it like it belonged to her. “Lock up,” she said again, and was gone.
He stood there, chest rising and falling, cock still thick and aching despite the release, hands itching for her skin. Furious with the want. Furious with the way she’d walked out like he was a fire she’d used to warm her hands and nothing else.
“Fine,” he told the empty room. He picked up his shirt, dragged it on, and moved the chair, because Maeve Cross said lock up and he always did what she told him, even when it killed him.
He checked the back door, set the chair under the front handle, and turned off the lamps until the hearth was the only light left. He stood there another long minute, breathing in her scent that still hung thick in the air and let the want burn clean.
“Round two,” he said to the quiet, promising it to the night, to the Veil, to himself. “Soon.”