"This ass," he says, voice rough. "Was made for my hands."
A laugh escapes me.
Unexpected.
"That's the worst line I've ever heard."
"It's not a line." He squeezes again, harder, and I gasp. "It's a fact."
I kiss him to shut him up.
He lets me.
For about three seconds.
Then his hands are moving again. Sliding under my shirt. Tracing up my spine. His fingers are rough. Calloused. They leave trails of fire across my skin.
"If you want to ride me like this," he murmurs against my mouth, "you need to take off your clothes."
My heart pounds.
We don't have condoms.
I know this.
I know we should stop. Should be responsible. Should think about consequences.
But I'm so tired of thinking.
So tired of being careful.
So tired of living in fear.
After everything—the shooting, the attack, the cartel, the constant threat of death—I'm still here. Still breathing. Still alive.
I've been living on borrowed time for two years.
Running out of luck should have happened a long time ago.
But it hasn't.
And right now, with Dante's hands on my body and his cock hard beneath me, I don't care about consequences. Don't care about risks. Don't care about anything except getting him inside me.
I need this.
Need him.
I sit up.
Dante's hands fall to my thighs.
He watches me with those dark eyes. Hungry. Patient. Waiting.
I grab the hem of my shirt.
Pull it over my head.
My nipples harden. Dante's gaze drops to my breasts, and his jaw clenches.
