“I’m sure,” I whisper, breathless. “I’ve never been more sure.”
His eyes flash—dark and feral—and then he’son meagain, 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 bodyagainst 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. Heplacesme—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 fuckingsound? 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’sdark, 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 maybeI’mall 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, thestoryof him. He shudders, breath hitching when I drag my fingertips across the bruise on his ribcage.
“You’re hurt.”
