When he pulled back, his eyes were hungry.
April's entire body was paying attention now. The heat of his mouth on her knuckles had spread up her arm, settled in her groin. She wanted those hands on her. Wanted to know if he touched everything with that same precision. Wanted to find outwhat happened when a man who moved like every action was calculated decided to let go.
April closed the distance between them and kissed him.
He tasted like expensive whiskey. She expected him to take over immediately, to turn that controlled patience into something consuming. But he didn't. He let her lead. Let her press closer. Her hands found his shoulders and discovered muscle that shifted under the expensive fabric when he moved. His body was all controlled power held in check, and she wanted to find the breaking point.
She let her hands slide down his chest, dictating the pace—until his restraint snapped like a wire pulled too tight. His hand slid into her hair, tilting her head back with just enough force to make her gasp. And suddenly the kiss was deeper, hotter, all-consuming. His other hand settled on her hip, gripping hard enough to leave an imprint. The thought sent heat straight between her legs.
He pulled her flush against him and she felt the solid wall of his chest, the heat radiating through layers of clothing, the unmistakable hardness of him pressed against her stomach.
April gasped, hips grinding, and felt him smile against her mouth.
"Yes, use me," he murmured, and approval landed like a touch.
He walked her backward without breaking the kiss. Three steps. Four. Her back hit the desk.
April's hands found his shoulders, felt the muscle shift as he guided her. His body was solid against hers, all that controlled power finally in contact. Solid enough to make her want to test how far she could push before he pushed back. He lifted her onto the desk like moving women onto expensive furniture was a skill he'd perfected through practice.
April’s thighs shifted, welcoming him between them. His hips fit perfectly, she could feel the hard length of him pressing against her through his pants, and she wanted it inside her with an urgency that made her breath catch.
Dante pulled back just enough to see her, not enough to leave the comfort of her thighs or the hot press of their bodies. His gaze dragged over her with attention that landed like a touch. He studied her face: flushed, breathing hard, eyes still dark with want.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
The question was so absurd April almost laughed. “Sure. Very professional setup you’ve got here.”
His mouth curved. The shift from controlled to amused to something darker. His hands moved to her hips, sliding under the emerald silk to find the lace underneath. He pulled her panties down in one smooth motion and she lifted her hips to help without thinking about it. He tucked them into his pocket.
He opened the top drawer. "I like to be prepared." And pulled out a bottle of lube.
Of course he keeps lube in his desk drawer. Right next to the pens and the staplers and probably a gun. This is just good organizational practices.
The sheer efficiency of it made her want to either laugh or scream.
April watched him uncap it. Watched his hands, he moved between her legs. She expected him to warm it first, maybe use his fingers to apply it.
He didn't.
Dante squeezed the bottle directly over her pussy, and April's brain shut down mid-inventory.
The lube was cold. Obscene. It dripped onto her like he was anointing her for something holy, except there was nothing holy about the way he was looking at her.
"Fuck," April breathed.
"Not yet."
His hand settled on the back of her neck. Her body went still under that hand. Held. Controlled. Like he could keep her exactly where he wanted her with just that single point of contact, and her body knew it and surrendered to it.
His other hand moved between her thighs. Fingers slick with lube, pressing into her without ceremony.
The first finger slid in easily. She was already wet, already ready. The second stretched her. By the third, April's head fell back and she had to remember how to breathe. The lube made everything slicker, more obscene, and she could hear the wet sounds of his fingers moving inside her.
"Look at me," he said.
April did.
He watched her face, his eyes were dark and entirely unapologetic. She'd been noticing his hands all night—the way they handled cards, the precision of his gestures. Now she was discovering what they felt like inside her. Thick fingers, deliberate pressure, finding spots she didn't know existed with the same confidence he'd used to negotiate. Every movement calculated. Every curl of his fingers intentional.
