For once, Dante Spence — the golden boy, the quarterback, the smug bastard who always had a grin — was silent.
Chapter 33
Savannah
His chest pressed against my back, his breath dragging over my skin like he couldn’t quite catch it. The heat of him seeped into me, heavy and grounding.
Neither of us moved. Not yet. His hand slid down, not rough this time but slow, fingers splayed against my hip like he needed the contact as much as I did.
I closed my eyes. For a second — just a second — I let myself forget all the warnings. It was just the weight of him holding me together, the sound of our hearts thundering in sync, and the sharp, terrifying feeling of belonging.
“Savannah...” His voice was low, not cocky, but almost... uncertain. Like he didn’t know what came next either.
I turned my head, just enough to glimpse him from the corner of my eye. His expression wasn’t the mask he wore for everyone else — it was raw, open in a way that made my chest ache.
We stayed like that, tangled and silent, both of us pretending the world outside the four walls didn’t exist. As we lay there wrapped in each other, I wished it didn’t.
"We know how this started," I said quietly.
"Yeah."
“You were using me, or keeping me close.”
He didn’t say anything.
"I'm still here." I swallowed. “You’re here . . .”
“I am.” He looked at me for a long time. "I’m not going anywhere."
"And I’m not walking away after what you did and what you called me.” I took a deep breath. “Don't make me regret it."
"I won't."
He rolled onto his side, bringing me with him, and somehow managed to shift me effortlessly until he was caging me in with one arm braced above my head. His forehead touched mine, sweat-damp, breath still slightly ragged.
“It’s me and you, Sav,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “No more games.”
For once, I didn’t argue. Didn’t remind him of all the outside pressures, of the fact I was his tutor, or of how badly this could end. Because in this moment, pressed beneath the weight of him, I didn’t care. I wanted him.
“Then stop talking,” I whispered back, and lifted my mouth to his.
The kiss wasn’t hurried now — it was deep, sure, threaded with all the hunger we hadn’t admitted but couldn’t hide. His hand slid to the back of my neck, holding me there like he was terrified I’d vanish if he let go.
My fingers dug into his shoulders, feeling the solid strength of him under my hands, the sharp reminder that this was real, flesh and heat and need — not some fantasy I could brush away when morning came.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes burning like he could see straight through every excuse I’d ever made. “Then we’re agreed — you’re mine.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yours,” I breathed, because it didn’t feel like a lie.
With that, the last of the walls crumbled. His mouth claimed mine again, slower this time, but no less consuming. Every press of his lips felt like something he hadn’t said yet.
I arched into him, and his hand slid down, his palm skimming over my ribs, my hip, until his fingers gripped my thigh and pulled me flush against him. Heat shot through me, fierce and impossible to ignore.
“Dante,” I whispered, the word breaking on my tongue like I’d been holding it back forever.
He groaned low in his throat, moving over me completely, the solid weight of him pinning me to the mattress. His kiss turned demanding again, but this time every bite of his teeth was followed by a sweep of his tongue, every rough touch soothed by something softer.
Skin on skin, heat meeting heat. He slowed only long enough to look down at me, his thumb brushing over my cheek as if he wanted to memorize me.
