“Found out the man I thought loved me had been lying about everything. Turns out I was just a business transaction.” I take a sip of wine. “What about you? Let me guess—businessman?”
“Something like that.”
“Rich businessman who can afford penthouse suites and expensive wine.” I study his outline in the dim light. “But not the kind who made his money completely legally.”
He chuckles, low and rough. “What makes you say that?”
“The way you move. The way you talk. There’s an edge there.” I tilt my head. “Plus, completely legal rich guys don’t usually need to pay for companionship.”
“Maybe I’m just lonely.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah.” The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. “Very lonely.”
We talk for a long time after that, the wine making us both more open than we probably should be. He tells me about years of regret, about choices that haunt him, about a son he’s lost touch with. I share pieces of my story—the betrayal, the escape, the months of running and hiding.
Neither of us gives names or details that matter.
“I haven’t talked to anyone like this in years,” he admits, his hand finding mine in the shadows.
“Like what?”
“Honestly. Without an agenda.” His thumb traces across my knuckles. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone who needed saving. Someone fragile.” He lifts our joined hands and presses a soft kiss to my palm. “You’re not fragile at all.”
“You’re not what I expected either,” I whisper.
“No?”
“I thought you’d be demanding. Entitled. Take what you paid for and leave.” I shift closer to him on the bed. “Instead, you’re…”
“What?”
“Gentle. Kind.” I look up at his shadowed face. “When’s the last time someone was gentle with you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“When’s the last time you were gentle with someone?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “I don’t remember that either.”
Something shifts between us. The space on the bed feels smaller, the air thicker with possibility.
“We could try,” I whisper. “Being gentle with each other.”
When he kisses me, it’s nothing like I’ve ever experienced before.
I kiss him back, tasting wine and loneliness and the promise of something different.
Something that might actually heal instead of hurt.
It’s nothing like Dante’s kisses—demanding, possessive, designed to remind me who was in control. This is soft, questioning, like he’s asking permission with every breath.
My hands fist his shirt as I pull him closer. He responds with a low growl, his arms coming around me to lift me onto his lap.
