"You’re drunk." He seethes.
"I had three glasses of champagne! I'm not drunk, I'm just a little tipsy. There's a difference." I try to push him away, but he doesn't budge, stubborn mountain of a man. "Maybe if you weren't such a controlling bastard?—"
"Controlling?" His laugh is bitter. "I'm trying to protect you. To protect us. But you're so determined to prove you're your own person that you'll sabotage everything just to make a point."
"Maybe I want to forget!" The words burst out before I can stop them. "Maybe I want to forget that I'm trapped here. That my mother's life depends on me playing dress-up and pretending to love a man who treats me like shit. Maybe I want five minutes where I don't have to think about any of it!"
Something in his expression shifts. The anger is still there but underneath it, something else. Something hungry.
My breath hitches.
The cool plaster of the wall bites into my palms. My chest is still heaving from the argument, from the things we said, from the fucking electric charge that always hangs in the air between us.
Dante doesn’t move. He just watches me, his dark eyes like a predator’s in the low light, and the silence is somehow louder than our shouting.
“You want to forget?” His voice is pure gravel, a low rumble that I feel deep in my belly. “Fine. Let me help you forget.”
He doesn’t rush. He closes the distance between us with a terrifying, slow control that makes my heart pound so hard against my ribs I’m scared it’ll tear me open. His hand comes up, his thumb brushing my lower lip, a touch so soft it’s a fucking insult after everything.
I should knee him in the balls. I should scream. But I’m frozen, hypnotized by the dark, utterly sexy heat in his gaze.
Then his mouth is on mine.
I whimper at the contact.
His lips are firm, demanding, possessive, and they move against mine with a precision that unravels me on the spot. There’s no hesitation. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and the taste of him—vanilla and mint and pure, unadulterated Dante—floods my senses.Oh, fuck.My brain just white-outs. All the anger, all the reasons why this is a terrible idea, just evaporate.
A whiny whimper leaves my lips and the next moment, I’m kissing him back like I’m starving for it, my hands fisting in the soft, expensive wool of his jacket, pulling him closer. A low groan vibrates from his chest into mine, and the sound goes straight to my core, making me clench around nothing.
I want him, I want this. I fucking want this so badly it hurts.
He breaks the kiss, both of us gasping for air. His forehead rests against mine, his breath hot on my face. “Still want to tell me no, Bianca?”
Before I can form a lie, he growls and his lips are on mine again, hungrier this time. This kiss is all tongues and teeth.
Messy and desperate need. He spins me around, pressing my front flush against the wall, his hard body a solid, immovable weight against my back. His hand tangles in my hair, not painfully, but with an authority that makes my knees weak, tilting my head to the side. His lips find the sensitive skin beneath my ear.
“Do you know what happens to disobedient girls, Bianca?” he purrs, his voice a dark caress down my back. His free hand slides down my side, over my hip, gathering the silky fabric of my dress. “You wanted to defy me? Let’s see how that fucking feels.”
He hikes the dress up to my waist. The cool air hits my bare skin, and I shudder. His palm, warm and rough, caresses the curve of my ass. God, his hands. I remember exactly what they can do.
“Dante, what are you doing? We’re—” I start to protest, trying to push him away.
His hand comes down on my ass. A sharp, stinging slap that makes me jolt against the wall. A shocked gasp tears from my throat, followed immediately by a rush of heat so intense it’s dizzying. He does it again. And again. Each smack echoes in thequiet hallway, each one sending a jolt of pure, filthy pleasure straight to my throbbing clit.
I’m wet. I’m so wet I can feel it soaking through my lace panties, trickling down my thighs.
The shame of it burns almost as much as my skin, but it only makes me hotter.
“Still feeling defiant?” he growls. His hand slides around my hip, his fingers dipping between my thighs. He grunts, a sound of pure male satisfaction, when he feels the damp lace. “Fuck, Bianca. You’re dripping for me. Your body knows who it belongs to, even if that smart mouth of yours won’t admit it.”
“I-I don’t belong to anyone,” I pant, but it’s weak, pathetic.
“You’re a fucking liar.” He hooks his fingers in the side of my panties and yanks them down to my knees. The air feels incredible on my overheated skin and a lustful groan leaves my lips. Then his fingers are on me, parting my folds, and his thumb finds my clit.
Jesus.
I cry out, my head falling back against his shoulder. He circles that swollen, sensitive nub with a brutal, perfect rhythm.
