[Dante’s POV]
She's kissing me like she's trying to crawl inside my skin. Her legs wrap around my waist, fingers fisted in my hair hard enough to hurt. Good. I want proof this is real and not another fantasy I'll wake from alone.
I carry her out of the study, her mouth never leaving mine. Down the hall, up the stairs, toward my actual bedroom instead of whatever convenient surface is nearby. She deserves better. Cazzo, I'm a gentleman when it counts. When it matters.
The door closes and I lower her onto my bed—Egyptian cotton, obscene thread count, the kind of luxury most people only dream about. She doesn't notice. Too busy pulling at my shirt with desperate efficiency that suggests patience died somewhere around the wine cellar incident.
"Five years," she breathes against my mouth. "Five years I hated you."
"I know." I work on her uniform. The fabric rips. I'm not sorry. "Hate me later, bella. Right now I need—"
"What?" Her eyes are dark, pupils blown. "What do you need?"
"You. Just you." The words come out raw, stripped of control. "No games. No stopping. Not this time."
She pulls me down, mouth finding mine again. The kiss is messy, desperate, five years compressed into teeth and tongue. I map her body—memorizing curves I've touched but never claimed.
Her clothes come off. She's naked beneath me and I take a moment to just look. Madonna, she's beautiful. Smooth skin and soft curves, dark hair spread across my pillows like she belongs there.
"Stop staring." Her cheeks flush, but she doesn't cover herself. "You've seen me before."
"Not like this." I trail fingers down her sternum, between her breasts. "Not in my bed. Not knowing I'm not stopping."
I lower my head, taking her nipple into my mouth. She arches, fingers threading through my hair, holding me there while I work the sensitive peak with my tongue. Her other breast gets the same attention—licking, sucking, grazing with teeth until she's writhing. Her arousal coats her inner thighs, slick and hot.
"Dante—" My name sounds like a prayer or curse. "Please—"
"Please what?" I kiss down her body. "Use your words, amore."
"Touch me. Stop making me wait." She tugs my hair. "No more games. You promised."
I settle between her thighs and taste her properly for the first time without stopping. She cries out, hips bucking. I hold her down while my tongue explores every fold that makes her shake.
She's drenched. Arousal coating my tongue, dripping onto my sheets. I work her clit—circling, sucking, alternating pressure until her thighs tremble against my shoulders. Two fingers slide inside easily, curling to find that spot.
"Oh God—" Her words dissolve into moans. "Right there—don't stop—"
I bring her to the edge, feeling her inner walls flutter, her clit pulsing. Then I pull back slightly.
"What did I say about games?" Her voice is wrecked.
"Not a game." I kiss her inner thigh. "Just making sure you're ready."
"I'm ready. I'm so ready I'm going to murder you if you don't—" The threat cuts off when I thrust three fingers inside her. Her back arches, a sound escaping that's half pleasure, half frustration.
I work her open, pumping while my thumb circles her clit. She's so wet I can hear it—obscene sounds filling my bedroom. Her inner walls clench, muscles fluttering.
This time I don't stop.
She comes with my name on her lips, body going rigid before dissolving into waves. I watch her face—eyes squeezing shut, mouth opening, color flooding her cheeks. Bellissima. Absolutely wrecked.
Before she comes down, I'm stripping. My cock is hard, pre-cum leaking. I grab a condom, roll it on with unsteady hands.
She watches through half-lidded eyes. "Come here."
I settle over her, aligning at her entrance. She's still pulsing, still slick and perfect. I push inside slowly, watching her face. There's only pleasure—her mouth falling open, nails digging into my shoulders.
Cristo Santo. She's tight. So tight I pause halfway, breathing hard. Her inner walls grip me like a fist.
"Move," she gasps. "Dante, please—"
I pull back and thrust fully. She cries out, legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper. And then I lose it. Lose the control I've maintained for five years. I fuck her like I'm trying to prove something—that she's mine, that this is real.
The bed frame hits the wall with each thrust. I don't care. Let the staff hear. Let everyone know she's in my bed where she belongs.
"Harder." She bites my shoulder, nails raking down my back. "Stop holding back."
I grip her hips hard enough to bruise, changing the angle, hitting deeper. Her head falls back. I lean down and bite her throat—not hard enough to break skin but enough to mark. Mine. Mia.
"Yes—" She's meeting me thrust for thrust, rolling her hips. "Just like that—don't stop—"
I reach between us, finding her clit. The added stimulation makes her clench, inner walls rippling. I can feel my orgasm building at the base of my spine, that tight coil of pleasure-pain.
"Come for me, bella." I circle her clit faster, thrusting harder. "Let me feel it."
She shatters. Her body locks up, inner walls clamping down like a vice. The sensation triggers my release—pleasure slamming through me so intensely I see stars. I come buried deep inside her, vision whiting out.
When I come back to myself, I'm collapsed on top of her. Breathing hard. Heart pounding. She's stroking my back lazily, fingers tracing patterns on sweat-slicked skin.
I pull out carefully, disposing of the condom before collapsing beside her. She immediately curls into me, head on my chest, one leg thrown over mine. Like she belongs there.
"Your thread count is obscene," she murmurs. Her voice is sleepy. "Who needs sheets this expensive?"
"People with taste." I play with her hair. "You're complaining about my sheets? Really? That's what you're focused on right now?"
"They're very soft." She yawns. "Criminally soft. You probably paid more for these sheets than I made in a year at the diner, didn't you?"
"Probably." I kiss the top of her head. "Worth every penny if it means you're comfortable."
She makes a small sound—half laugh, half something else. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're beautiful." The words slip out without permission. But she's already falling asleep, body going heavy, breathing evening out.
She doesn't hear me. Which is probably for the best.
I lie there in the darkness, watching her breathe. Counting each inhale like I'm memorizing the rhythm. Her hair spreads across my pillow, her hand rests over my heart. She looks peaceful.
I'm completely screwed. There's no version of this that ends well. Loving her makes her a target. The smart move would be to push her away, finish the year, let her go.
But with Valentina asleep in my arms, breathing steady, trusting me enough to be vulnerable in my bed, I can't bring myself to care about consequences.
Reality can wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I just watch her and pretend we have forever.
Even though we both know we don't.