“Please what?” I pull back just enough to speak against her. “Tell me what you need.”
“More. I need.” She breaks off with a sob when I seal around her clit and suck. “Oh god, Dante.”
“That’s not God.” I suck harder. “That’s me.”
Her back arches. Her hips moving in helpless circles against me, chasing sensation, chasing release.
And then it hits.
My father’s face. Gray skin going grayer. Hand pressed to his chest.
Lucia.
The memory slams into me like a blade between the ribs.
I freeze.
Still pressed against her. Her taste flooding my senses. But I can’t move. The ghost of my father’s voice echoing through me.
I will not become him.
“Dante?”
Her voice. Worried now. Pulling me back.
“Dante, what’s wrong?”
I should stop. Should pull away. Should put distance between us before I hand her the knife and bare my throat.
She slides her touch through my hair. Gentle. Grounding.
“Come back to me.”
The same words she used to pull me from the nightmare.
I look up at her. She’s watching me with those dark eyes, and there’s no judgment there. No fear. Just her, seeing me, waiting for me to decide.
“You should run.” My voice sounds like gravel. My thumb traces her jaw without permission. “From me. From this.”
“I’m not running.”
“Cassia.” My voice splits on her name.
“I’m not running.” Her grip tightens in my hair. “I’m right here. And I want this. I want you. So either finish what you started or I will.”
I don’t let her finish.
I find her again. Hungrier now. More desperate. Because she’s still here. Because she saw me crack and didn’t leave. Because I’m already damned. I might as well make it worth it.
“Oh.” Her hips buck against me. “Oh God.”
I work her relentless now. Tongue stroking, circling, tasting. Everything I have.
“You’re going to come on my tongue.” Not a question. A command. “Right now.”
Two fingers slide into her. Slow. Feeling her stretch around me.
“Jesus Christ.” The words rip out of me. “So tight. So fucking wet.”
