12. Dante
DANTE
S he tastes like the wine we shared, dark and sweet, her laughter still echoing somewhere behind her teeth as my mouth claims hers fully, not with calculation, not with heat for its own sake, but with that strange, awful hunger I have been keeping locked up for too long.
My hands slide to her waist, feeling the soft give of silk beneath my palms, and I groan when she doesn't pull away.
Not even a little.
"Gianna," I murmur against her lips, the name like a promise I am terrified of making.
Her fingers twist in the front of my shirt, and her breath stutters. "I shouldn't let you."
"Then stop me," I whisper, and press my mouth to the curve of her jaw, trailing my lips down to the tender skin just below her ear.
She exhales, shaky and quiet, but her grip tightens instead of loosening.
She is not running.
I carry her inside, to her bedroom within the suite, lit only by the antique sconces and the silver of a rising moon.
Right now, the world feels narrowed down to the places where our bodies touch, where heat gathers, where breath meets skin.
Her wedding dress rustles faintly as I back her toward the armchair near the fire, the hem of it brushing over the rug.
I slip a hand behind her back and find the zipper.
Sowly, I slide the zipper down, watching her lashes flutter as her body tenses beneath my touch.
The silk falls away like it was waiting to be asked.
Gianna lets out a low breath, and I step back just enough to drink her in.
The dress slips past her hips, pooling at her feet, leaving her in nothing but pale lingerie that should not look this innocent.
Her skin is gold where the moonlight touches it, her stomach soft from childbirth in a way that makes my hands ache to touch it.
She has never looked more like a queen and more like mine.
"You’re staring," she says, trying to fold her arms, suddenly self-conscious.
"Yeah. And I’m not stopping," I answer, stepping forward again.
My hands find her hips and I guide her back into the chair.
She lets me.
Maybe because she's tired of being in control, or maybe because some part of her knows I need this.
I kneel in front of her, not because I want to worship her, but because I need to taste her, to know that she is real and that she is letting me in.
My fingers slide slowly up her thighs, watching the way her legs shift.
I want her impatient.
I want her trembling.
I want her to forget everything except what it feels like to be wanted not as a symbol or a strategy, but as a woman.
"Tell me to stop," I say again, voice lower now, rougher. "And I will."
Her eyes meet mine, wide and uncertain, but she doesn't speak.
She reaches down instead, threads her fingers into my hair, and says, "Don't you dare."
I smile into her skin and kiss the inside of her thigh.
She gasps when I bite her, just lightly, just enough to remind her that this is not about being gentle.
I trail my mouth higher, pulling her legs over my shoulders as I press my tongue to the lace between her legs, wet already, sweet and unbearably soft.
She shudders, her fingers clenching.
"Dante," she whispers, and the sound of it, that voice shaking with need, is enough to make me lose what little control I have left.
I slide her panties aside and taste her, slow at first, the tip of my tongue circling where she’s swollen.
She moans, low and quiet, hips shifting in search of more pressure.
I give it to her.
My mouth lingers, then sucks, then flicks.
I tease.
I learn.
I listen to the way her breath changes and the way her thighs tighten, and I adjust until she’s trembling around me, hand fisted on the back of my head like she doesn’t know whether to pull me closer or push me away.
"You think this changes anything?" she breathes, voice high and broken.
"I think it already has," I growl, adding my fingers now, sliding one in, then another, feeling her stretch around me, her body greedy for it.
Her back arches as I curl my fingers just right, and I feel the shiver start from her knees and shoot up through her core.
"You’re a bastard," she says, and then gasps as I suck her clit again, harder this time. "You’re going to ruin me."
"Not ruin," I whisper into her. "Remind."
And then she comes with her mouth open and my name ripped out of her, her hips bucking, thighs trembling against my shoulders.
I feel it everywhere—on my tongue, in my chest, in the deep part of me that has never once known restraint when it comes to her.
I keep my mouth on her, soft now, coaxing the last wave out of her until her breath comes in slow, uneven pulls and her hands go limp in my hair.
But just as I begin to lift my head, thinking she’ll collapse into me, let me gather her up and carry her to the bed like a man who knows how to care for what he’s ruined—she moves.
Fast.
She exhales something close to a laugh, not mocking but dark with need, and grabs me by the collar of my open shirt. "You think you get to leave me like that?" she whispers, voice rough, pupils blown wide. "Get on the floor."
It isn’t a request.
It’s not even a threat.
It’s a shift in gravity.
She pushes, and I go, back hitting the rug with a dull thud.
I don’t complain, in fact, I can hardly speak.
I just look up at her, half-wild in just her bra, her cheeks still flushed, her thighs glistening.
She climbs over me, slow, settling between my legs and dragging her nails down the planes of my chest as if she’s memorizing every inch.
"I’ve had dreams about this," she says, almost to herself, almost accusing, like I owe her more than what I gave her.
“Five years, Dante. You have no idea how many nights I wanted to hate you and couldn’t."
She kisses my stomach first.
Just there.
Just beneath my navel.
Her lips are hot.
Her breath hits my skin and I feel myself twitch harder, already half undone from the sound of her voice alone.
Then her fingers reach for the waistband of my slacks, tugging them lower with the grace of someone who has waited far too long to pretend at patience.
I groan low when she wraps her hand around me.
Firm, smooth, perfect.
"You like to talk," she says, dragging her mouth down the line of my hip. "Let’s see how quiet I can make you."
Then her lips part, and she takes me in.
God.
My head falls back against the floor.
My eyes close.
And for a moment, I forget my name.
Her mouth is hot, wet, and perfect.
She moves slowly, not teasing but commanding, using her tongue with skill I never should have fantasized about, because now that it’s real, I don’t know how to hold still.
One hand wraps around the base of me, twisting gently as she takes more, deeper, her breath humming around me.
The sound, the warmth, the rhythm—every part of me strains toward her like gravity gave up pretending it had rules.
I grip the carpet.
I lift my hips, and she doesn’t stop me.
She encourages it, moans around me, eyes flicking up once and catching mine.
It’s that look that nearly ends me.
The power in it.
The hunger.
She’s not just giving me head.
She’s staking a claim.
"You feel good," she says between strokes, her lips brushing my tip as her hand pumps slow. "But you already know that, don’t you?"
I can’t answer.
I don’t trust myself to speak.
So, I groan, reaching down to thread my fingers through her hair, guiding her gently, just enough to show her I’m not completely lost.
But I am.
I’m gone.
My breath staggers every time she hollows her cheeks and slides back down, every time her tongue flicks against the underside of me like she knows exactly how I like it.
She builds me up slowly.
And when she senses me getting close, she pulls back just enough to speak, her lips slick, her voice pure heat.
"You want to come in my mouth?"
My response is a growl.
She grins and takes me deep again, bobbing faster now, twisting her wrist in time with the motion of her throat.
I feel it rising, sharp and electric, crawling up my spine like lightning.
I try to warn her, but she’s not stopping.
And when I come, I swear the world goes white behind my eyes.
I spill down her throat, jaw clenched, hands fisted in her hair as I moan her name like it’s the only damn word I remember.
She swallows every last drop.
Then she pulls back, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and leans over me, flushed and smiling like she just won a war neither of us meant to start.
"Next time," she whispers, lips brushing my jaw, "you don’t get to run first."
And somehow, even in this mess, all I want is more.
I grip her waist and flip her over, hooking her bra off and tossing it aside.
She gasps, more surprised than afraid, and it fuels every wicked instinct I’ve kept buried for five years.
I look down at her, at those lips parted in shock, her chest rising fast, the glint of heat returning to her eyes.
"You started this," I growl, voice rough with want. "Now let me finish it."