Chapter 6
Dahlia
P resent Day
The restraints are gone.
I sit in a velvet chair near the tall windows of his bedroom, trying not to show how badly my legs are shaking.
The penthouse is quieter now. A little too still. I’m learning that Dante operates in stillness. Eerily so.
The walls are warm-toned steel and black stone, and everything about this room whispers dominance. No softness. No apologies.
And the bed?—
God.
The bed is massive. Four posts and dark sheets. Heavy, masculine scent already coiled in the air like cologne and sin. A king’s altar for every fantasy I never should’ve had. Never should’ve listed on The Club app on a stupid whim.
Dante emerges from the bathroom shirtless, suit pants swapped for expensive-looking lounge bottoms, toweling his hair. Sculpted. Fluid. Bronzed skin. Unfairly fucking beautiful. Like he was born from wrath and lust and filthy sin in equal measure.
He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. “Take off your clothes.”
I freeze. “What?”
He meets my eyes. Calm. Serious. “I want you naked when you get in my bed.”
I want to throw something. Make demands. Plead for time. Instead, I stand—slowly. Like if I move too fast, I’ll shatter with the force of the alien need moving through me.
He watches.
My fingers tremble as I strip. First the boots. Then the jacket. The clingy top. The cargo pants. Sports bra. My underwear last.
I stand there. Bare and burning. Hating myself for the tears stinging behind my eyes.
I shouldn’t feel exposed. I’ve been naked with a guy before.
But not like this.
Never like this. Never with a man like him. One who sees so much. Too much. One who intends to lay me bare with scalpel-sharp purpose that will leave me bleeding and thankful.
Just like you wanted.
I ignore the insidious whisper as he walks to me slowly, eating the space between us.
Dark eyes coast over me, linger here and there but there’s zero reaction to my naked body.
His hand lifts—and I flinch. But he only brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re not a victim, Little Dahlia. You came looking for this.”
The reminder, so close to that whisper, makes me want to slap him. Scream at him. Break his jaw. But my knees weaken instead. Floored by a truth I don’t want to admit yet. Maybe never.
He takes my hand—warm touch, capable and powerful—and leads me to the bed. When I hesitate, he tugs me harder—like he’s daring me to pretend I don’t want it.
The sheets are soft. Cool. I lie down on my back. Heart slamming and nipples erect. Skin prickling with awareness.
He stands at the foot of the bed and watches, obsidian eyes glinting. Not so cold anymore. Then—he climbs in.
Over me. Caging me in.
His voice is a whisper at my ear. “I know what you crave. I read it between your lines the first night you logged on.”
He brushes his fingers down my chest, ghosting over one breast, making me arch against my will. I shake my head.
He presses on, undaunted. “You want to give up control—but only to someone who can truly take it.”
I try to turn my head. He captures my jaw, firm but not painful.
“You need someone stronger than your rage,” he whispers. “Let me be that.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
But… sweet heaven… my legs fall open. Just slightly. Of their own damned volition. Betrayal and permission in one fucking little move.
And he smiles, like a king granted the keys to his favorite ruin.
He touches me. Just his fingers, slow and confident, dance down my body, leaving a trail of goosebumps and alarm in their wake. Almost clinically, they slide between my thighs. I gasp and try not to, but he hears it.
He keeps his eyes on mine the whole time.
“You’ll learn,” he says softly. “How to beg. How to break. And how it feels to be wanted… even when you’re destroyed.”
Up and down my slit. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. But he doesn’t push inside me. He doesn’t take or conquer like I thought he would.
Instead—he withdraws.
And for a moment, I’m left wide open, bare and trembling, with need hanging in the air like a blade that never drops.
His hand glides upward, skimming my inner thigh, then my waist, mapping my body with the reverence of a man cataloguing an imperfect, priceless artifact—like he’s searching for the exact point where I’ll crack, and not a second too soon.
“You hide behind righteous fire,” he murmurs, brushing the underside of my breast with the back of his fingers. “But I see the girl underneath. The one who hasn’t been touched the right way. The one who wants someone to know her before they ruin her.”
My nipples harden under the cool air and the hotter weight of his stare.
“I’m not some trembling virgin,” I bite out, even though my voice betrays me.
I’m not even sure why I uttered the V word.
Because for all intents and purposes I am.
Two fumbles at seventeen and twenty, brief and sticky and awful, don’t experience make.
And by protesting I sense I’ve just drawn attention to how inexperienced I truly am.
“No,” he agrees, thumb grazing the tip of one breast, circling lazily until I have to clench my fists to stop from arching into him.
From breaking and begging as he so infuriatingly predicted. Because I’ll be damned if I break in one night. In one hour .
“But you’re inexperienced in the ways that matter. You’ve never let anyone own your pleasure.”
I twist my face away.
He shifts—slow, deliberate, as if giving me time to acclimate to his intent, to him —and presses his mouth to my jaw.
Not a kiss. A test.
Then his lips drag down my neck. Behind my ear. Along my collarbone. Every press is soft, drugging, perfectly placed—designed not to claim, but to study.
By the time he kisses the center of my chest, I’m shaking, shocked, maddening words trembling on the tip of my tongue. How has he done this to me, so fucking fast ?
He settles between my legs, half-clothed, propped on his elbows. I can feel the heat of his body, the steel pipe of his cock. Dear God, he can’t be that big. The jagged edge of his restraint.
And still—he doesn’t take.
He hovers . Watchful.
“Makes you crazy, doesn’t it?” he says softly. “Not knowing when I’ll give you what you want. Or if I will at all.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” I hiss.
He smiles. “Liar. Hmm, maybe I should give you a nickname. Lying Little Dahlia.”
Six. Seven?
His hand slides between my thighs again, cupping my pussy—bold, warm, steady, maddening. The pressure against my clit, my sopping center, is good. So fucking good. I moan before I can stop it.
His voice darkens. “I could make you come in under two minutes. No penetration. No toys. Just my hands. My mouth. My words.”
I’m panting now. Humiliation and desire crash into each other, drowning everything else.
“But not tonight,” he murmurs.
And just like that—his touch is gone. I’m left bare and buzzing, wet and stunned.
“No,” I snap, tell myself I’m more angry with his stupid stunts than with the loss of his touch and my thwarted hunger. “You don’t get to play games?—”
“I already did,” he says, straightening, not even a little breathless. “And I won.”
He looks down at me, the silk of his voice gone taut. “Sleep, Dahlia.”
“I’m not a toy. I can’t be switched on and off at your leisure. I can’t fall asleep in a stranger’s bed. I can’t?—”
“You can. You will.” He brushes a thumb across my bottom lip. “Because I said so.”
He steps back. Leaves me on the bed with every nerve screaming.
No more words. No satisfaction. No power.
Just… a burn. A hollow.
A why did I want that? Why can’t I stop wanting?
He turns out the bedside light and disappears into the shadows of the room, then out the door, leaving me to lie there—aching, bewildered, furious.
And more afraid than I’ve ever been.
Not of him. Of myself.
And the worst part? I don’t want to get up, get dressed, explore my options .
I don’t want to run.
Because whatever game this is, I want to win .