It feels like a thousand pounds have lifted from my chest. No verbal sparring between Dante and Corrine with me putting out fires between them. I can’t help but wonder if things really could be this easy.
We move toward Isabella like we’ve done this a thousand times.
And maybe we haven’t.
But it sure as hell feels like we will.
The dinner table is massive—round, lacquered mahogany dressed in black velvet and candlelight. It seats twelve, all of us from the firm. Dante is directly across from me. Eve to my left. Corrine—two seats down on my right.
Each place setting cost two hundred and fifty grand. An entire table bought without blinking. The money goes to notable causes across the city—rehab centers, food banks, arts programs. But our contributions tonight are earmarked for the St. James Orphanage.
Dante let Eve pick the benefactor.
It’s never been on our charitable service days hosted by the firm, so I make a mental note to look into it later.
The five-course meal was decadent—foie gras, tenderloin, sea bass in citrus butter. Wines paired with each dish. Everyone’s belly is full. The lights are dim.
All eyes face the stage as a speaker begins to thank sponsors.
It only takes a second and I feel that heat crawling up the back of my neck. That static of being watched.
I turn slightly and my eyes land on Dante.
He’s not smiling. Not smirking.
He’s devouring.
And I’m helpless under the weight of it.
That flame from earlier—meant to warm, to pull me toward him—it’s gone.
What stares back at me now is consumption.
The inferno that used to feel like war but it’s different now and I’m lost to it.
He’s so beautiful it knocks the breath out of my lungs. His lips part like he’s struggling too. Like something primal’s coiled tight inside him, desperate to break free.
Then his hands move, slipping beneath the table, slow, smooth, and out of view.
I feel my cheeks flush. I glance down the table, searching for a witness.
Eve is focused on the stage, face poised, spine elegant. Corrine’s halfway through a glass of wine, legs crossed, attention fixed somewhere across the room.
No one sees except me.
And I know what he’s doing.
I see it in the slow, near-imperceptible shift of his shirt fabric. The smallest motion—a rhythmic pump that has everything to do with his cock in his hand under the table.
The semi I walked in with swells into something painful. Torturous. Like I’ve never been this hard in my life.
I grip the edge of my chair. My thigh flexes under the tablecloth. Every cell in my body screams for friction, for release, for him.
For the very thing I’ve been fighting for five years.
Fuck, longer than that.
Then Dante shifts. Barely. His nostrils flare, his throat tightens, and his jaw goes rigid with tension. His mouth opens just enough for a whisper of breath to leave him—and I know.
