Dante
Her soft weightpresses against my spine. Her arm drapes over my side. Her hand rests flat against my chest, her fingers tracing the small, jagged scar just below my right collarbone.
The reinforced door is directly behind me. Seven engaged deadbolts secure the reinforced oak frame. My back is exposed to it.
For twenty years, a blind spot meant death. My tactical armor demanded a clear line of sight to every exit. My hypervigilance kept my brothers breathing. I lived inside the cold paranoia of a war that stole my family. I was the guard dog. I was the unblinking sentry.
Not tonight.
Tonight, the perimeter does not exist. The war is a thousand miles away. The only thing that matters is anchored to my skin.
The warm scent of her skin fills the room. The cold focus is gone. Only the man remains, driven by a raw need for her.
I roll.
The mattress groans under my weight. The movement is sudden. Gemma gasps as I pin her beneath my frame. Soft, warm curves slide against rigid muscle. My thighs bracket her hips, pinning her in place. My hands frame her face.
She blinks up at me in the dim light cutting through the drapes.
Her lips part. A sassy, fearless smile spreads across her mouth.
"You finally done clearing the corners, Costa?" she whispers.
"Corners are clear," I rasp. "You're the only target left."
My mouth crashes down on hers.
There is no hesitation. No gentle teasing. I am a starving man at a feast. My tongue forces past her lips, sweeping her mouth, tasting the perfection of her. She tastes like basil and garlic, a lingering note from the pasta we'd just eaten, beneath the defiance on her tongue. Her hands tangle in my short dark hair, gripping the strands tight. She pulls me closer, demanding the bruising pressure of my kiss.
My rugged beard scratches against her delicate chin. The friction is a violent, beautiful contrast. A brutal enforcer and a bright, beautiful woman. She accepts every rough edge. She embraces the monster.
A low, animalistic growl rumbles in my chest.
My right hand releases her face and drops to her shoulder. The compass and knotwork tattooed down my arm flex violently as I grip the collar of my oversized henley. The shirt is tangled around her waist, the only barrier left between us.
I rip it over her head. The cotton tears slightly at the seam. I toss the ruined fabric onto the floor.
She is bare beneath me.
Glorious.
Luscious thighs. A soft, perfect stomach. Gorgeous tits. Every single curve demands worship. My rough hands map the territory, claiming every inch. I drag my palms down her sides, squeezing her hips, branding her skin with the heat of my touch. The dark ink covering my arm bunches as I brace my weight over her.
"Mine," I growl against her throat.
"Yours," she gasps, arching into my chest. "Only yours."
The words shatter the final, microscopic thread of my control.
I drag my body down the mattress. My knees part her thighs, pushing them wide. I settle between her legs, settling into the center of my universe. The room is hot, charged with the scent of arousal. The gold watch on the nightstand ticks away the seconds, but time has ceased to exist. There is only Gemma.
I lower my head. My beard grazes the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
Gemma jolts. Her hands fly down, her fingers digging into my broad shoulders.
"Dante," she breathes. The sassy bravado is gone. Only raw, desperate need remains.
"I am going to claim every inch of you," I state. It is not a promise. It is a threat.
