Not toward the sink. Not toward the door, but toward me.
Each step is graceful and slow, her eyes never leaving mine. My hands tighten on the glass I’m holding hard enough that I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
She stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell her.
“I’m done running,” she says quietly. “I’m done pretending I don’t want this.”
The words throw me off guard as nothing could have prepared me for this admission, from this stubborn and proud woman.
I set down my glass very carefully because if I don’t, I’m going to break it. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Scarlett—”
“I’ve spent six years running from you. Six years trying to forget that night. Six years lying to myself about what I felt.” Her voice is steady, but I can see her hands shaking. “And I’m tired. I’m so tired of fighting this.”
I stand slowly, and she doesn’t back away or put distance between us like she should.
“If we do this, there’s no going back.” I need her to understand exactly what she’s agreeing to. “I’m not the kind of man who does casual. Who lets go of what’s mine.”
“I know what you are.”
“Do you? Because once I have you, I’m keeping you. No running. No escape. No changing your mind when things get difficult.”
Her eyes flash with defiance. “Then stop talking and prove it.”
That’s all it takes.
I close the distance between us in two steps and kiss her like I’ve been starving for six years. Like she’s air, and I’ve been drowning in the ocean of want. Like nothing else in the world matters except getting my hands on her.
She kisses me back just as desperately, rising up on her toes to get closer, her hands fisting in my hair. All the anger and longing and everything unsaid between us explodes in that kiss.
I grip her hips and lift her onto the counter, stepping between her thighs before she can protest. Not that I’ll pay heed if she does. She wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me closer, and the feel of her against me makes my vision go hazy.
My hands are everywhere. Sliding up her sides, cupping her face, tangling in her hair. I can’t get enough. Can’t touch her enough. Six years of wanting this, of dreaming about this, and nothing compares to the reality.
She breaks the kiss to gasp for air and I immediately move to her neck, tasting the skin there, feeling her pulse race under my tongue.
“Dante,” she breathes.
Hearing my name like that, breathy and desperate, makes something primal wake up inside me. I bite down on the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, not hard enough to truly hurt but hard enough to mark. My mark. To claim. She cries out and arches into me, her nails digging into my shoulders.
“Tell me to stop,” I growl against her skin, giving her one last chance even though stopping might actually kill me. “Tell me now, because in another minute I won’t be able to.”
“Don’t you dare stop.”
The words snap whatever restraint I have left.
I grab the hem of her tank top and pull it over her head in one smooth move. No bra of course. She’s perfect, all soft curves and smooth skin that I need to taste immediately.
I lower my head to her breast and she gasps, her fingers threading through my hair and gripping hard. I take my time, worshiping every inch of her with my mouth, learning what makes her gasp and what makes her moan and what makes her body tremble.
When I scrape my teeth across her nipple, she cries out and her hips buck against me hard enough that I feel it everywhere.
“Please,” she whispers, and I’ve never heard anything more perfect than Scarlett begging.
“Please what?”
