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Dante.
Dante is standing outside of my apartment in October.
Dante, who slipped out of my bed before I woke up this morning, who didn’t leave a note, who never gave me his number.
That Dante is standing in front of my dingy apartment, waiting for me.
I lean into the passenger seat to grab my bag and gather my thoughts before turning back to the door to let myself out. But in the three seconds it takes, he's standing there, opening the door for me and offering me his hand. I grab it and he tugs, lifting me out of my seat before slamming the door shut once I’m out. And then he's moving, pinning me to the cold metal, hands on either side of my body as his nose runs from the collarbone that’s exposed in the slouchy sweatshirt up my neck, stopping to press a kiss below my ear.
“Missed you,” he says, the words reminiscent of the grocery store.
I should ask what the fuck he’s doing here.
I should ask how long he’s been here.
I should ask a million and seven things, including why was he at the grocery store and how did he find me on the side of the road that one time, but instead, I breathe in his scent and my body relaxes.
Goddammit.
And then my vagina—or maybe it’s my girly heart, but it’s definitely not my head—asks him a question.
Again. It’s not a good one, not one I should be asking.
“Where were you this morning?” I ask in a whisper, the cold air turning my breath into clouds that float in the air between us.
“Had an early meeting.” His lips press to where my pulse is already racing, his tongue dipping out to taste. When he pulls back, the cold air attacks that spot, but it flares with heat all the same. “Hated leaving you.”
“You could have woken me up,” I whisper despite the fact that, again, there are so many other things I freaking should be saying.
“Like you did?” he counters, and something twists in me; the thought of him using that as payback hurt. “No, not that. I wasn't getting you back. You just looked sweet. Knew I’d be here tonight, couldn’t stay away.”
“You knew you’d be here tonight?” I ask, and my body shivers, both from the thought of him planning to be here yesterday and the cold of the metal.
“Oh yeah,” he says with a smile on his lips, stepping back. “Come on. Let’s get you inside. Have you eaten?” he asks, guiding me to my apartment. I dig in my bag to find my key, unlocking the door before opening it, which Dante shuts behind me.
“How did you know where I lived?” I ask, tossing my bag onto the shitty couch and turning to face him.
Once again, he moves to corner me, turning me until my back is to the door.
“You think you could bring me to your place and I wouldn’t take notes of where it is? Make it so you couldn’t disappear on me again?”
“You disappeared last time,” I say in a whisper.
“But I told you, I knew I’d be back.” His hand goes to my hip, pulling me into him, and my body can’t help but respond, my arms impulsively going around his neck.
It’s like I’m a puppet and he’s the master, like my body can only respond to accept him, to encourage him.
“But I didn’t know that,” I say, and I’m embarrassed that the words slip from my lips.
“Oh, fiorella. Don’t you know?” he asks, the words so damned soft, like he’s talking to an injured animal. The hand not on my hip moves until he grabs my chin, tipping it up to meet his face. “You have possessed me. The first time I saw you, I needed to know you.” He touches his lips to mine gently, kissing me, my breath halting in my lungs. “The first time I heard your voice, I became a man obsessed. The first time I felt your touch, I knew you’d be mine. Delilah, no matter where you go, I will find you.”
His words should terrify me.
They should have me calling the cops.
This man I barely know saying he’s obsessed with me, that he’ll find me no matter where I go, should have me running for the hills.
But instead, it has me melting into him.
