"Dante—"
"You're not sleeping in that room," he says, voice low, gravel and smoke.
My breath catches. "No?"
He leans in, his mouth a breath from my ear. "No. You're sleeping in mine."
I manage a smirk even though my knees have forgotten what holding weight means. "Controlling much?"
"Honest," he murmurs, eyes flicking to my mouth. "And done pretending I don't want you."
I should stop him.
I should remind him that we're fire and gunpowder.
But when his hand finds the curve of my jaw, rough thumb tracing the corner of my lips, every thought burns away.
I tilt my chin just enough for our mouths to meet.
The kiss starts slow this time—an apology, a question, a surrender.
Then it deepens until I can feel the tremor he's trying to hide in the way his fingers tighten against my hip.
He tastes like coffee and control finally breaking.
Like something that shouldn't exist and somehow does.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, breath unsteady. "Come with me, Bella."
It's not a command.
It's a plea.
I nod.
He closed the door behind us, plunging the room into shadow. For a moment, we were both frozen, breathing the thick, heavy air. The only light was the smoky silver bleeding in from the city windows, casting him in a dangerous, ethereal glow.
Then he reached for me again. His hands were slower now, careful, almost reverent, like he was memorizing proof that I was real. I could hear every brush of his skin against my fabric, a sound louder and more significant than any whispered word.
His mouth found mine once more—gentler, deeper—until everything else faded. The hurt, the mistrust, the noise of the world outside these walls. He kissed me like a promise he'd been afraid to make, and I answered him like a woman who finally understood the danger of wanting him and chose it anyway. The city hummed beyond the glass, distant and small.
Inside, there was only breath and my frantic heartbeat, and the realization that we had both stopped pretending not to need this.
The reverence vanished. The moment he tilted his head, the kiss turned from a tender joining into a demanding siege. His control, which had been fighting him outside, snapped back into place—sharper, harder. He didn't ask; he took.
His hands, no longer careful, slid down my back, gripping the soft curve of my hips and tugging me flush against the brutal proof of his desire. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest, a sound of possession that demanded instant, total surrender.
My clothes suddenly became an intolerable barrier. He pinned my shoulders against the wall, his chest a heavy, demanding weight against mine, his mouth never leaving my own. I heard the sharp, shocking sound of my zipper—a gasp caught in the silence—as his fingers dragged it down with a ruthless speed that told me he was done waiting.
The dress fell away, pooling at my feet. The chill of the night air hit my exposed skin, but his heat immediately consumed it. I was left trembling in silk and shadow, utterly exposed beneath his dark, scrutinizing gaze.
He drew back just enough to take a ragged breath, his eyes tracing the line of my throat, my collarbones, the frantic peak of my chest. He didn't touch me again with his hands—not yet. He simply stood there, jaw tight, his entire posture radiating an absolute, dominant command.
His voice grazed my ear, raw as a whisper and rougher than his stubble: "Look at me, Isabella. You're mine tonight. Every gasp. Every tremor. Every piece of you. All of it is mine."
The words were a blow and a caress all at once, stripping me of every ounce of resistance. The thought of fighting him was laughable. I lifted my chin, a silent offering of submission.
He moved then, sweeping me up into his arms. I felt the powerful tension in his biceps as he carried me to the bed. He didn't drop me; he placed me deliberately in the center of the crisp, white sheets—ensuring I was precisely where he wanted me.
