April
Her nipples were tight against the silk of her dress. She hoped the dim lighting hid it. She suspected it didn't.
Dante didn’t move, only waited.
She pulled it out.
Jax: Attached: [Don Dante—full panel current as of this week]
April huffed a laugh.
Dante's eyebrow lifted. "Something funny?"
She turned her phone face down on the desk next to his. "Just my friend being thorough."
His mouth curved. Like he knew exactly what "thorough" meant in this context and approved.
Dante held her gaze like a lock clicking into place. Then he offered his hand palm up.
April looked at his hand. She chose it.
Dante lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles—slowly, like a vow being spoken without words. His lips lingered there. The formality should've been ridiculous. Instead it felt like foreplay—a promise wrapped in old-world manners.
When he pulled back, his eyes were hungry.
April's entire body was paying attention now.
The heat of his mouth on her knuckles had spread up her arm, settled in her groin.
She wanted those hands on her. Wanted to know if he touched everything with that same precision.
Wanted to find out what happened when a man who moved like every action was calculated decided to let go.
April closed the distance between them and kissed him.
He tasted like expensive whiskey. She expected him to take over immediately, to turn that controlled patience into something consuming.
But he didn't. He let her lead. Let her press closer.
Her hands found his shoulders and discovered muscle that shifted under the expensive fabric when he moved.
His body was all controlled power held in check, and she wanted to find the breaking point.
She let her hands slide down his chest, dictating the pace—until his restraint snapped like a wire pulled too tight.
His hand slid into her hair, tilting her head back with just enough force to make her gasp.
And suddenly the kiss was deeper, hotter, all-consuming.
His other hand settled on her hip, gripping hard enough to leave an imprint.
The thought sent heat straight between her legs.
He pulled her flush against him and she felt the solid wall of his chest, the heat radiating through layers of clothing, the unmistakable hardness of him pressed against her stomach.
April gasped, hips grinding, and felt him smile against her mouth.
"Yes, use me," he murmured, and approval landed like a touch.
He walked her backward without breaking the kiss. Three steps. Four. Her back hit the desk.
April's hands found his shoulders, felt the muscle shift as he guided her.
His body was solid against hers, all that controlled power finally in contact.
Solid enough to make her want to test how far she could push before he pushed back.
He lifted her onto the desk like moving women onto expensive furniture was a skill he'd perfected through practice.
April’s thighs shifted, welcoming him between them. His hips fit perfectly, she could feel the hard length of him pressing against her through his pants, and she wanted it inside her with an urgency that made her breath catch.
Dante pulled back just enough to see her, not enough to leave the comfort of her thighs or the hot press of their bodies. His gaze dragged over her with attention that landed like a touch. He studied her face: flushed, breathing hard, eyes still dark with want.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
The question was so absurd April almost laughed. “Sure. Very professional setup you’ve got here.”
His mouth curved. The shift from controlled to amused to something darker.
His hands moved to her hips, sliding under the emerald silk to find the lace underneath.
He pulled her panties down in one smooth motion and she lifted her hips to help without thinking about it. He tucked them into his pocket.
He opened the top drawer. "I like to be prepared." And pulled out a bottle of lube.
Of course he keeps lube in his desk drawer. Right next to the pens and the staplers and probably a gun. This is just good organizational practices.
The sheer efficiency of it made her want to either laugh or scream.
April watched him uncap it. Watched his hands, he moved between her legs. She expected him to warm it first, maybe use his fingers to apply it.
He didn't.
Dante squeezed the bottle directly over her pussy, and April's brain shut down mid-inventory.
The lube was cold. Obscene. It dripped onto her like he was anointing her for something holy, except there was nothing holy about the way he was looking at her.
"Fuck," April breathed.
"Not yet."
His hand settled on the back of her neck. Her body went still under that hand. Held. Controlled. Like he could keep her exactly where he wanted her with just that single point of contact, and her body knew it and surrendered to it.
His other hand moved between her thighs. Fingers slick with lube, pressing into her without ceremony.
The first finger slid in easily. She was already wet, already ready. The second stretched her. By the third, April's head fell back and she had to remember how to breathe. The lube made everything slicker, more obscene, and she could hear the wet sounds of his fingers moving inside her.
"Look at me," he said.
April did.
He watched her face, his eyes were dark and entirely unapologetic.
She'd been noticing his hands all night—the way they handled cards, the precision of his gestures.
Now she was discovering what they felt like inside her.
Thick fingers, deliberate pressure, finding spots she didn't know existed with the same confidence he'd used to negotiate.
Every movement calculated. Every curl of his fingers intentional.
“How does it feel?”
“It feels…” her voice was barely more than a gasp. “It feels lewd.”
His mouth curved against her thigh. His fingers pressed deeper.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me see you."
April's hips rolled into his hand involuntarily, chasing more of that approval, more of his touch, more of whatever he was willing to give her. The slickness, the stretch, the way he touched her like he had every right—it was too much and not enough and she was going to lose her mind if he didn't—
"Now, principessa." It wasn't a request.
The orgasm tore through her like a security override, every lock gone, every system triggered at once. The room narrowed to his hand on the back of her neck and the pulse between her legs. Heat, noise, and a free-fall into sensation she'd chosen but couldn't steer.
When she came back, her first coherent thought was: I wonder if his desk has seen worse.
Dante’s smile was all sharp satisfaction, like a man watching his prediction prove true.
“Brava,” he said. “Exactly like I knew you would.”
The words hit her like a physical touch.
Her body responded before her brain could catch up.
A fresh rush of heat, her core clenching around nothing, wanting him inside her again already.
She'd never thought she'd be into that kind of praise, but something about the way he said it.
Approval mixed with possession mixed with promise that made her want to earn it again.
Before April could respond he flipped her over. The movement was effortless, his hands on her hips, turning her like she was something light and manageable. April's palms hit the cool mahogany. Face sideways on the desk. Ass up.
The position was filthy and exposed and she could see the haze of the poker table through the glass wall where the poker game continued like nothing was happening.
Behind her, Dante moved. His hands spread her open, baring her to the room behind the glass. She saw his reflection unbuckle his belt, calm as ever. He moved like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and had done it before and would do it again.
April discovered she liked watching him.
Liked the purposefulness of it. She could see his shoulders shift as he freed himself.
Could see the focus on his face, the same expression he'd worn during negotiation, but rawer now.
His hand hit her back, holding her down, so there was nothing she could do but anticipate.
He filled her in one stroke.
The stretch locked her spine straight. Her fingers slipped against the desk, scrambling for purchase that wasn't there.
"Fuck—"
He held.
His hand settled on the back of her neck. "You know they heard you."
What?
"When you came on my fingers." His thumb traced her spine. "Every sound."
The poker game. The glass. The way she'd—
Oh god.
"They're still listening."
Heat flooded through her—sharp, mortifying, and something else that made her core clench around him.
His hand tightened on her hip. Waiting.
She pressed back. Took him deeper.
"Yes," he said.
Then he moved.
Hard in a way that wasn't rushed. Each thrust shifted the desk beneath them—and her with it, forward into the edge until the mahogany became a problem she couldn't ignore. Her breath broke against the wood, rhythm she couldn't match—only take.
She reached back for him—tried to catch his arm, anything to anchor herself.
He caught her wrist. "Stay."
April pulled her hand back. Planted it against the glass wall instead.
The slap echoed. Loud enough that she heard it over her own breathing, over the distant bass, over the slide of skin and the wet sounds of him moving inside her.
Loud enough the poker table definitely heard it.
"Better," Dante said, approval rough in his voice. Both hands returned to her hips, and his grip locked her in place. "Good."
Then his hand struck her ass. The sting bloomed fast. April gasped. Her body seized around him.
"You like that," Dante said. Not a question.
"Yes—" April gasped. "Yes, I—"