Page 26 of Dante

My pulse jumps under his hand.

“You’ve been my wife less than 24 hours and you dare walk into my club looking like you’re trying to get laid.”

“I wasn’t trying to⁠—”

“You think I don’t know what this dress is? What it does to a man?”

His knuckle moves lazily down to my collarbone.

“Every man on the casino floor must have seen what you came in wearing. Every soldier I employ. Every cocktail girl. Tell me, Mrs. Ricci. Did you enjoy that?”

“No—”

“Look me in the eye and say it.”

I look at him. “No, Dante.”

He studies my face.

His hand opens against my collarbone. The flat of his palm is hot through the thin dress.

Then he drags it down until his fingers spread wide just above my low-cut neckline.

“Trash that wig. I never want to see it again.”

“Yes, Dante.”

“Good girl.”

The words go through me like they did on the wedding night, hot and low and sharp.

My thighs press together before I can stop them.

He sees it.

His other hand comes off the wall and slides around my hip to the small of my back.

And lower.

He cups the curve of my ass and pulls me hard against him.

I feel the full length of him through his suit trousers.

“Dante—”

“What do you want, wife?”

“I want⁠—”

“Say it.”

“I want you,” I whisper. I can’t bring myself to choke out I want you to love me.

His grip on my ass tightens hard enough to hurt. His other hand slides off my chest and finds the hem of the dress.

He pushes it up. Not all the way, just enough that the cool air of the office hits the skin of my upper thigh.

His fingers dig in there, the calloused pads of them pressing into my bare flesh.