"There." I gasp, arching into him. "Right there, please, don't stop."
He doesn't stop. He drives into that perfect spot over and over, his pace increasing, his groans mingling with my cries. The pressure builds, coiling tighter with every thrust, and when the orgasm crashes through me, I scream his borrowed name loud enough to echo off the glass.
He's not done with me.
Before I can catch my breath, he rolls us over, settling me on top of him. His hands grip my hips, guiding me into a rhythm, and the new angle makes him feel even deeper.
"Ride me." His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. "Let me see that beautiful face while you take your pleasure."
I brace my hands on his chest and move, tentatively at first, testing the angle, the depth, the way his thickness drags against my sensitive walls with every rise and fall. His skin is hot beneath my palms, slick with a sheen of sweat, and I can feel his heart pounding against my fingertips, racing as fast as my own.
"That's it, jungle flower." His voice is strained, rough at the edges. "Take what you need from me."
I roll my hips experimentally and we both groan at the sensation. His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise, but he doesn't guide me. He lets me set the pace, lets me discover what makes pleasure spike through my core like lightning.
I find a rhythm that has my toes curling inside those ridiculous stilettos, my head falling back, my nails scoring crescent moons into his chest. His eyes never leave my face, watchingevery expression, every gasp, every moan. The attention is intoxicating, being seen like this, being wanted like this.
"You're so beautiful riding me." His thumb finds my clit and presses in slow circles. "So fucking perfect. I could watch you forever."
The added pressure is my undoing. The orgasm builds again, impossibly fast, coiling tight and hot in my belly before it snaps and floods through me in waves of liquid fire. I collapse against his chest with a sob of pleasure, my inner walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, my whole body trembling with the aftershocks.
His arms wrap around me, holding me close, his lips pressing against my sweat-dampened hair as I come down from the high.
Still, he's not done.
He lifts me off him, and I whimper at the loss, but then he's carrying me toward the waterfall. Warm water cascades over us as he walks us beneath the spray, and the sensation of liquid heat on my sensitized skin makes me cry out.
He grips my ass with both hands, lifting me higher against him, and I wrap my arms around his neck to anchor myself. I hook my stiletto-clad feet behind his back for more leverage, water streaming over our tangled bodies. Then he slides back inside me with one smooth thrust and I cry out. I cling to him like he's the only solid thing left in the world.
This time, there's no gentleness. He fucks me with wild abandon, water streaming over our bodies, washing away Luna's paint, revealing the real me beneath. The woman with blue-tipped black hair and light brown eyes and a face that isn't particularly special but seems to captivate him all the same.
"I've never seen a more beautiful jungle flower," he rasps against my throat. "Never."
The pleasure crests one final time, a wave so intense my vision whites out at the edges. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate, his fingers digging bruises into the flesh of my ass as he chases his release alongside mine.
He swells inside me, impossibly thicker, and then he groans my name like a broken prayer as he pulses hot and deep, flooding my core with his release. The sensation of him coming undone inside me triggers my own shattered cry, and I fall apart in his arms with his borrowed name on my lips, my inner walls milking every last drop from him as the warm water cascades over our trembling bodies.
We stay like that for a long moment, joined and trembling, the warm water washing us clean.
When he finally lowers me to my feet, his movements are achingly gentle. He washes every inch of me, his hands reverent on my skin. He rinses my hair, massaging my scalp until I'm boneless and sighing. He wraps me in a warmed towel and carries me to the bed, taking my shoes off before tucking me beneath the silk sheets like I'm precious.
Then he climbs in beside me and pulls me against his chest.
"When morning comes," he murmurs against my hair, "we'll talk about more nights like this. One taste of you isn't nearly enough, Ilona."
My heart swells with longing and cracks with knowledge. I want that. I want more nights, more of him, more of this feeling of being wanted.
But I know better than to believe in fairy tales.
I don’t know how long we sleep, but I wake to find dawn creeping through the glass walls to paint the sky in shades of pink and gold.
Dante sleeps beside me, one arm thrown over my waist, his breathing deep and even. His long hair drapes over his gorgeous muscles and I’m tempted to run my hands through it just one more time. But I resist.
In the soft morning light, he looks younger somehow. Peaceful. The dangerous edge softened by dreams I'll never know.
I slip from beneath his arm, careful not to wake him. My body aches in unfamiliar ways, tender reminders of everything we did in the dark hours. I should stay. I should let him make good on his promise of more.
But happily ever after isn't in the cards for women like me.
