Chapter 25
Sofia
When Dante kisses me, it’s not sweet. It’s savage.
There’s a tremor in the air the moment our lips meet, like the universe itself is bracing for what’s about to happen.
His mouth is all heat and hunger, devouring mine with the kind of intensity that makes my knees weaken and my pulse roar in my ears.
His control slips with every breath I give him, every inch I surrender. And I do—I give it willingly.
The second I kiss him back, he snaps.
His hands come to my face like he’s starved for touch, his thumbs rough as they sweep along my cheekbones, anchoring me. His kiss deepens—no longer hesitant, no longer polite. It’s possessive. Dominant. A storm that’s been building for weeks and finally breaks.
“Sofia,” he rasps against my lips, voice wrecked. “I need you to be sure. Because I won’t stop once I start.”
“I’m sure,” I whisper, breathless. “I’ve never been more sure.”
His eyes flash—dark and feral—and then he’s on me again, dragging me into his orbit like gravity. My hands fist in his shirt, desperate to pull him closer, to feel every hard line of his body against mine. When he breaks the kiss, it’s only to press his forehead to mine, panting.
“You drive me fucking insane.”
“Good.”
That earns me a growl. A real one. It rumbles through his chest as he lifts me—like I weigh nothing—and carries me toward the bedroom.
Every step is a promise.
Every kiss along my neck, every murmur of my name, is a threat: You asked for this. You wanted me. Now you’ll take all of me.
The moment Dante lays me down, the world stops pretending to exist.
He doesn’t drop me, doesn’t rush. He places me—carefully, reverently—like I’m some sacred thing, even as his body cages mine with the full weight of his desire. His chest hovers above mine, muscles taut with restraint, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he’s barely holding himself back.
And God, I don’t want him to.
His hand braces beside my head, the other skimming down the curve of my waist, settling on my hip. His thumb draws circles there, slow, possessive. Like he’s trying to brand me before he even undresses me.
He dips down and kisses me again.
But it’s not like before. There’s no patience in it now. No sweet build-up or careful pacing. His mouth is molten—urgent, hungry—tongue sliding past my lips like he’s starving for me. He groans low when I whimper into the kiss, and that sound? That fucking sound? It wrecks me.
His lips trail along my jaw, down my throat, nipping at the delicate skin until I arch for him, giving him more. Always more. I can’t help it—I want to be consumed. I want his teeth in my neck and his name carved into my lungs.
“Sofia,” he murmurs, the syllables gravel-wrapped, “you taste like sin.”
“You feel like one.”
He laughs, but it’s not light. It’s dark, cracked open at the edges. “Then pray I don’t show you what kind.”
And then he kneels, dragging his shirt over his head.
I stop breathing.
There’s so much of him. Broad shoulders, cut chest, thick arms covered in ink—black tattoos that wind and curve and bite into his skin like they were made from shadow.
Some old. Some new. One stretches down his side in jagged script I can’t quite read, disappearing beneath his waistband.
Another curls up the inside of his bicep, wrapping around the muscle like a serpent.
And then I see the damage.
Fresh bruises bloom over his ribs, deep purple and angry. Scrapes across his side where the metal tore into him during the crash. He’s still bleeding in places—but he doesn’t seem to feel it.
Or maybe I’m all he feels right now.
“Dante,” I whisper, reaching up.
He catches my wrist before I can touch him.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
His expression tightens. “It doesn’t matter.”
I slide my hand down his chest anyway, fingers trembling as they trace the ink, the scars, the story of him. He shudders, breath hitching when I drag my fingertips across the bruise on his ribcage.
“You’re hurt.”
“You’re mine.”
It’s not a correction. It’s a fucking declaration.
He lowers himself over me again, the heat of his skin searing into mine. The pain of his injuries should slow him down, but if anything, it sharpens him. Makes him move with purpose. With need.
He kisses me like I’m his salvation and his damnation all at once.
His hands slide beneath my shirt, rough palms skimming over my skin. I’m burning everywhere he touches. He lifts the fabric slowly, exposing me inch by inch, and the look on his face—devastation. Like I’m both agony and ecstasy, the beginning and end of his ruin.
When he finally bares me completely, he just stares.
“Christ,” he mutters, almost like a prayer. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
I reach up, threading my fingers into his hair, tugging him down until our mouths crash together again. The kiss turns brutal, desperate. Tongues sliding, teeth clashing, breath shared like it’s the only oxygen left.
“Take it off,” I whisper, tugging at his belt.
His smirk is lethal. “Say please.”
I glare. He presses his hips down, and the friction makes my vision blur.
“Please.”
That’s all it takes.
He strips for me, slow and unhurried now, like every second is a lesson in torment. Every inch of him revealed makes my pulse spike higher. The V at his hips. The trail of ink that disappears into darkness. The bruises on his thighs. The blood drying on his abs. All of it is him. All of it mine.
“Are you ready?” he asks, voice rough, eyes burning into mine.
I nod. “Dante—I want you.”
He doesn’t make me wait.
He settles between my thighs, kisses me one last time like he’s about to end me—and then he presses in.
Slow. Deep. Endless.
I gasp, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders. There’s pain, sharp and blinding—but he stills, his body trembling with the effort not to move.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “Let me in. Let me have you.”
And I do.
I let him have every single inch of me.
Because Dante isn’t just in my body.
He’s under my skin. In my blood. Branded across my fucking soul.