"Gets louder at night."
The admission is so quiet I almost miss it. This man who projects such perfect control, such absolute confidence, is haunted by the people he's lost. The knowledge makes him seem more human somehow, more real than the dangerous figure I've built up in my mind.
"Is that why you were in the bar that night?" I ask. "Running from ghosts?"
"Maybe." His eyes meet mine across the darkened room. "What about you? What were you running from?"
"Boredom," I lie.
He laughs, a low rumble that does things to my insides I'm not prepared for. "Boredom led you to a stranger's hotel room?"
"Bad decision-making led me to a stranger's hotel room."
"Regret it?"
The question should be easy to answer. I should regret that night. I should wish I had never swiped right on that dating app.
Instead, I find myself standing up, crossing the room to where he sits. "Ask me again tomorrow."
Before he can respond and I can lose my nerve, I lean down and kiss him.
It starts soft, almost tentative, like I'm asking permission. But the moment his lips move against mine, something ignites between us that's been smoldering for days.
His hands come up to frame my face, fingers threading through my hair as he deepens the kiss. I can taste whiskey on his tongue, can smell that expensive cologne that haunts my dreams. But it’sthe barely controlled power in the way he touches me that really gets me.
"Hannah," he breathes against my mouth.
My name sounds like a prayer and a curse rolled into one.
"Don't think," I whisper, echoing the words he said to me in the library. "Just feel."
I drop to my knees in front of him. He’s wearing a pair of sweats that does nothing to hide his erection.
I pull at them. He gets what I want and lifts his ass so I can pull them down. I’m face to face with the cock that brings me so much pleasure.
I want to do the same for him.
I wrap my fingers around his base, marveling at the weight and heat of him in my palm. He's already hard, straining toward me like his body knows what I'm planning before his mind catches up.
"You don't have to—" he starts, but I silence him with a look.
"I want to," I say, and mean it completely.
I lean forward and press a soft kiss to his tip, tasting the salt of his arousal. His sharp intake of breath sends heat pooling low in my belly. Something about being with Dante strips away all my usual inhibitions.
I take him into my mouth slowly, savoring the weight of him on my tongue. His hands tangle in my hair, not directing but just touching, like he needs the connection as much as I do. I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, using my tongue to trace patterns along his length that make him groan low in his throat.
"Christ, Hannah," he breathes, his accent thicker with desire. "Your mouth..."
The praise sends warmth flooding through me. I establish a rhythm, using my hand to work what I can't take, my mouth moving up and down his shaft with increasing confidence. Every sound he makes, every tremor that runs through his powerful body, tells me exactly what he likes.
His breathing becomes ragged as I work him with my mouth, alternating between long, slow strokes and quick flicks of my tongue across his sensitive head. I can feel him fighting for control, his muscles tense beneath my free hand where it rests on his thigh.
"I'm close," he warns, his voice strained.
Instead of pulling away, I take him deeper, showing him without words that I want all of him. When he comes with my name on his lips, I swallow everything he gives me, the intimate act feeling like claiming and being claimed all at once.
I sit back on my heels, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. Dante looks completely undone, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his blue eyes dark with satisfaction and something deeper I don't want to name.
