⚘☙⚘
Two weeks ago
The club's bass throbs through my chest like a second heartbeat. It was another night. Another remedy and Amy and I have been here for two hours, and I've lost count of how many shots I've had. Three? Five? Enough that the edges of the world have gone soft and blurry, enough that I'm not thinking about Alex's hand on Evelyn's waist or the way my mother wouldn't look at me while they spoke about how they would be getting married.
Enough that I'm finally, blessedly numb.
"There's this really hot guy I see on the other side," Amy drawls in my ear, leaning so close I can smell the tequila on her breath. "Not too far from us."
She throws back another shot—her fifth, maybe sixth—and slams the glass on the bar with a triumphant grin.
We've been dancing for the past hour, our feet aching in these ridiculous heels, our bodies slick with sweat. The alcohol has made everything beautiful and hazy, like I'm watching my life through a filter. I like it. I want to stay here.
"He has an even hotter friend," Amy continues, leaning forward to give the mystery man across the room a better view of her cleavage. "Ooh, hot guy number one is looking over here."
I snort. "You can't even see him with this lighting."
"Trust me, babe. I can feel him."
Curiosity gets the better of me. I turn on my barstool, scanning the crowded club.
And then I see them.
Two men on a black leather sofa across the room, partially hidden in shadow. One of them—broad-shouldered, clean-cut—is definitely looking in our direction, a lazy smirk on his face.
But it's the other one who steals my breath.
He's leaning back, one arm draped over the back of the sofa, a tumbler of amber liquid in his other hand. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. And eyes—even from here, I can feel the weight of them.
He's looking at me.
Not at Amy. Not at the bar. At me.
The room tilts. Or maybe that's just the alcohol.
I can't look away.
"I'm going to the restroom," Amy says suddenly, her voice cutting through the spell. "Will you be good alone for a while?"
I nod, still locked in that stare.
Amy kisses my cheek and disappears into the crowd.
I turn back to the bar, my heart racing for reasons I don't want to examine. I signal the bartender for another shot. He fills my glass without a word.
I'm lifting it to my lips when a presence slides into the seat beside me.
The smell hits me first—spicy, woodsy, with a hint of cigar smoke. Expensive. Masculine. Intoxicating.
I breathe it in, my eyes fluttering closed for half a second.
"God, you are beautiful."
The voice is deep, rich, with a slight rasp that makes my thighs clench involuntarily. It wraps around me like velvet, like a command I want to obey.
I open my eyes.
And there he is.
Up close, he's devastating. Dark eyes that seem to see straight through me. A mouth made for sin. The kind of face that belongs on a magazine cover—or a wanted poster.
"Hello," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
He leans in, and I realize how close Amy's barstool is to mine. How close he is. I can see the flecks of gold in his irises, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
His lips move. I watch them, mesmerized.
"I'm Dante," he says.
Dante. The name fits him. Dangerous and beautiful, like something out of a dark fairytale.
My hair falls into my face. I tuck it behind my ear, suddenly hyperaware of every movement I make. I lick my lips.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Tracks the movement.
Heat floods my body.
Fuck the hangover I'm going to have tomorrow. Fuck Alex. Fuck Evelyn. Fuck all of them.
I lean in, close enough that my lips almost brush his ear. "Is it crazy that I want to kiss you so fucking bad right now?"
His eyes darken. A slow, wicked smile curves his mouth.
He leans in, his breath warm against my skin. "Is it crazy I've been thinking of fucking you since you walked in?"
Oh.
Oh.
My entire body goes liquid. Molten. I'm going to melt right off this barstool and onto the floor, and I don't even care.
He pulls back just enough to look at my face. I bite my lip, trying to steady myself, and a shiver runs down my spine.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks, his voice low and intimate, like he's sharing a secret.
I don't answer.
He doesn't wait.
His mouth crashes against mine, and the world ignites.
His hand cups the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair. His lips are firm, demanding, and when his tongue traces my lower lip, I open for him without hesitation.
The kiss is slow and deep and absolutely filthy. His tongue explores my mouth like he's memorizing the taste of me, and I let him, because I'm doing the same to him.
His free hand finds my waist, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast through the thin silk of my dress.
I gasp into his mouth.
He pulls back, and the smile he gives me is pure sin. "Let's ditch our friends."
I nod before I can think better of it.
His chuckle does unspeakable things to me.
We don't waste time finding our way out of the club.
The valet brings around a sleek black sports car—something low and fast and obscenely expensive. Dante opens the door for me, his hand on the small of my back as I slide into the passenger seat.
The leather is soft, the interior all dark wood and chrome. The engine purrs to life, and we peel out of the parking lot like we're running from something.
Maybe we are.
The drive is a blur of streetlights and adrenaline. His hand rests on my thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles against my skin, and I'm burning up, barely holding it together.
We pull up to a hotel—not just any hotel, but the kind of hotel. The kind with a doorman and marble floors and chandeliers that cost more than a car.
Dante tosses his keys to the valet without a word. His hand finds mine, and he leads me inside like he owns the place.
Maybe he does.
The elevator ride is torture. We're alone, the mirrored walls reflecting us back—me in my red dress, him in his perfectly tailored black shirt and slacks. He stands behind me, his chest against my back, his hands on my hips.
I watch us in the mirror. His mouth brushes my neck, just below my ear, and I shudder.
"You have no idea what you're doing to me," he murmurs against my skin.
"Show me," I whisper.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
He doesn't let go of me. He walks us down the hall to a suite at the end, swipes a keycard, and pulls me inside.
The door barely closes before his mouth is on mine again.
This time, there's no hesitation. No slow burn.
Dante backs me against the wall, his hands everywhere—my waist, my hips, sliding up my thighs beneath my dress. I gasp into his mouth, arching into him.
"Fuck, you're perfect," he growls, his lips trailing down my neck, teeth grazing my collarbone.
I tug at his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. He pulls back just long enough to yank it over his head, and I'm greeted with the sight of him—broad shoulders, defined chest, the kind of body that's clearly built for violence but feels like sin under my hands.
I run my palms over his skin, memorizing the heat of him, the way his muscles flex under my touch.
He reaches for the straps of my dress, sliding them down my shoulders. The silk pools at my waist, and his gaze drops to my chest.
"Christ," he breathes.
I'm not wearing a bra—the dress didn't allow for it. His hands cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I moan, my head falling back against the wall.
"You like that?" he asks, his voice rough.
"Yes," I gasp. "Yes."
He dips his head, his mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard enough to make me cry out. His tongue swirls, his teeth graze, and I'm trembling, my fingers tangled in his hair.
He moves to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, and I'm already so wet I'm afraid I'm going to ruin this dress.
"Dante," I whimper. "Please."
He pulls back, his eyes black with lust. "Please what?"
"Touch me."
His smile is wicked. "Where?"
I grab his hand and guide it between my legs.
He groans when he feels how wet I am through the thin lace of my underwear. "Fuck, Eva. You're soaked."
"Your fault," I manage.
He hooks his fingers into my underwear and drags them down my legs. I step out of them, my dress sliding the rest of the way off, and I'm completely bare in front of him.
He takes a moment to look at me, his gaze traveling from my face to my chest to the apex of my thighs, and I've never felt more exposed or more wanted in my life.
"Bedroom," he says, his voice a command.
I don't argue.
He takes my hand and leads me through the suite to a massive bedroom dominated by a king-sized bed with crisp white sheets.
I turn to face him, reaching for his belt. My hands shake as I unbuckle it, unbutton his slacks, slide the zipper down.
He's hard—achingly hard—and when I free him from his boxers, I have to bite back a moan.
He's big. Thick. Perfect.
"On the bed," he says.
I obey, crawling onto the mattress, my heart pounding.
He strips off the rest of his clothes and joins me, his body covering mine, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
"You sure about this?" he asks, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing my lower lip.
I nod. "I've never been more sure of anything."
He kisses me, slow and deep, and then his hand is between my legs again, his fingers sliding through my wetness, finding my clit.
I gasp, my hips bucking into his hand.
"So responsive," he murmurs against my mouth. "I love it."
He slides one finger inside me, then two, curling them just right, and I'm moaning, writhing, completely at his mercy.
"Dante," I pant. "I need—I need—"
"I know," he says. "I've got you."
He pulls his fingers out, and I whimper at the loss. But then he's positioning himself at my entrance, the head of his cock pressing against me, and I'm holding my breath.
"Look at me," he says.
I open my eyes. Meet his gaze.
He pushes inside, slow and steady, and the stretch is almost too much. I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"You okay?" he asks, his jaw clenched with the effort of holding still.
"Yes," I breathe. "Don't stop."
He sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside me. We both groan.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," he says, his forehead resting against mine.
He starts to move, slow at first, letting me adjust. But I don't want slow.
"Harder," I beg. "Please, Dante, harder."
He doesn't need to be told twice.
He pulls almost all the way out and slams back in, and I cry out, pleasure spiking through me.
He sets a brutal pace, his hips snapping against mine, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. I'm moaning, incoherent, my hands clutching at his back, his ass, anything I can reach.
"Touch yourself," he orders, his voice ragged. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
I slide my hand between us, my fingers finding my clit, and the added stimulation is almost too much.
"That's it," he groans. "Fuck, Eva, you're so close. I can feel it."
He's right. I'm teetering on the edge, my body coiled tight.
"Come for me," he says, his mouth against my ear. "Let go."
I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me, white-hot and overwhelming. I scream his name, my body convulsing, my inner walls clenching around him.
"Fuck," he gasps, and then he's coming too, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside me as he fills me.
We collapse together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and heaving breaths.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Then he rolls onto his back, pulling me with him so I'm draped across his chest.
"You good?" he asks, his hand stroking my hair.
"So good," I murmur, my eyes already drifting closed.
The last thing I remember before sleep takes me is the feeling of his lips pressing against my forehead and the whispered words: "I don't want this night to ever end."