I saw him glance at my scars, the loud flicker of curiosity he tried to hide. I waited, expecting him to snap, to ask, to trigger that familiar flash of anger. But he didn’t.
And I’m grateful.
His quiet, unspoken attention means more than any clumsy question ever could. Every gentle brush of his fingers, every soft kiss on that fragile skin feels like a salve, a tender repair for wounds I thought would never heal.
He pulls my leggings completely off, baring my legs. His eyes lock on my black thong, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. The action sends a signal to my brain, and I squeeze my thighs slightly, feeling the slick, messy warmth between my legs.
Fuck, I’m so wet. I didn’t notice it when I was focused on him, but now, I feel it. The sensation spreads, igniting my cheeks, making me feel like a glowing ember lost in the cold.
His eyes roam hungrily over my skin, drinking me in. It’s a slow, exquisite torture, like he’s peeling away my layers to see when I’ll snap and consume him whole.
And the bastard is dangerously close to succeeding. I can’t contain the desire, can’t tame the tremors and subtle shifts of my body under his gaze. My bladder threatens to betray me, my body screaming at my mind as I lift my head, trying to sit up, to grab his chin and pull him onto me.
But as I move, the blade I just pressed against him slides toward my neck. My body locks in place, a sudden surge of energy striking through me and rooting itself deep inside.
Instead of pressing the blade to my neck like I did to him, he lets it drift lower, tracing the curve of my collarbone. His eyes never leave mine, testing, teasing, measuring how far he can push me, wondering if I’ll snap, if I’ll demand he stop, if this unsettles me.
It does not. Every point where our bodies meet sparks a rush of fire through my veins, igniting each nerve until my muscles twitch beneath the intensity. Heat gathers low inside me, thick and urgent, a surge of want that coils tighter with every heartbeat, aching to be taken. Claimed somehow, in any fucking way.
Ineedthis. Desperately.
The blade slides down to my chest, drawing ghostly patterns across my skin. I arch my back, offering myself further, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugs at his lips, sharp and knowing.
He is devastating to look at, a sight that steals the air from my lungs. The warm glow of the lamps drapes over his features, turning the lines of his face into something carved from shadowand light, while loose strands of black hair fall across his forehead in careless disarray.
His hands are impossibly large, one roaming slowly across my body as the other holds the blade with a lethality that feels almost elegant. His blood appears suspended in time, half-dried streaks of red clinging to his skin in the places my tongue traced earlier, a dark reminder of how close I have already gotten.
Veins pulse along his forearm as he guides the blade down to my thong. Rather than slicing through, he carefully hooks it beneath the fabric before tugging it down just enough to bare me slightly.
Just as I brace for him to do something with the blade, he sets it down on the bed, dangerously close to me. Before I can react, his hands wrap around my waist, rolling me onto my stomach. He guides me up onto all fours, his body pressing firmly against my back, his heat soaking into me.
I part my lips in surprise, my eyes locking on the pillows ahead, frustration bubbling up through the sharp edge of my desire.
I want to see his face.
Parting my lips, I try to speak, though no words form in my mind. Before anything can escape, his finger snakes beneath my thong before he starts to pull. The soaked fabric cuts into my sensitive lips, spreading tingles of pain across my pussy. I let out a broken moan, and he hums in approval, twisting my senses into fucking chaos.
I let my eyes fall shut, my breath catching as the blade returns to the curve of my neck. The pull deep inside me grows fierce, a tightening I can’t ignore. Heat rushes through me in molten waves, each one sharper than the last, and I feel myself growing wetter with every heartbeat. The pleasure rises from the very things that should terrify me, fed by the cruel precisionof his touch and the dark thrill that coils through my body in response.
I love this. The edge of sinking, teetering on a knife’s edge where a single misstep could have devastating consequences. Not everyone would understand the rush I get from it, but Dante seems to read me like an open book. He’s careful, yet rough, always attuned, probing the tension in my body, gauging my reactions before pushing further.
He’s...perfect.
Pulling the fabric from side to side, he unleashes more jagged sparks of electric pain that strike straight to my brain, and I clench the sheets, letting every sharp pulse wash through me.
“What a good girl,” he coos, and I draw in a sharp breath, fighting the weak whimper clawing its way up from my chest. I’ve always had control, and I can’t remember any man ever speaking to me like this. Not anyone still alive, anyway.
But the sound of his voice lights something inside me. Right now, it syncs perfectly with the way he dominates me, holding my life and every nerve of my body in his hands.
That’s why I respond differently. Sparks of electricity trace along my skin, igniting me from the inside out, and I can’t control the pushes my body does against him as I start rubbing myself against his cock.
He’s as hard as a rock again, and there’s a measured serenity in him, a patience that could rival saints. All the men I’ve met before couldn’t wait to be inside me, blabbering about how hot I am and how they can’t control their instincts.
Dante, instead, focuses onme.
“What do you want, Estella?” he asks in a low, rough timbre, and I feel him near my ear, though I can’t tell if he’s leaned closer or still hovering behind.
It’s as if I’m suspended in a room without doors or windows, adrift on a cloud of pleasure that borders on the unreal. Hisfractured voice drifts to me from every corner, surrounding me, twisting through the haze of sensation.
