Page 76 of Dante

“What? I never⁠—”

“You disrespected me,” he cuts in, leaning forward. “In front of my own brothers.”

I shake my head.

“I wasn’t flirting with him, Dante. He was simply being friendly, and I responded in kind.” I take a half-step forward, keeping my voice steady despite my racing heart.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, and neither did he. We were just passing time while waiting for you to finish signing those contracts.”

He leans forward, his eyes darkening to obsidian.

“As my wife, I respect you too much to use a vulgar but appropriate word that describes your behavior today,” he says, his voice coiled tight.

“But make no mistake, anyone watching your little performance today would have seen a woman making a mockery of her wedding vows.”

“Dante!” I gasp. “No. You’re reading it all wrong.”

“Approach me.”

I step toward him.

“Remove your blouse.”

Why? But based on the fire in his eyes, I know not to ask questions.

Removing the garment will take time as I’m wearing that white camisole with endless buttons down the front.

My fingers fumble with the first tiny pearl button, then the second, the fabric resisting as I work.

Gradually something shifts in the air and my nipples harden. I’m curious about what he’s planning and fearful of it at the same time.

By the time I reach the fourth button, just where the fabric strains across my chest, I catch his gaze dropping lower. The thin silk of his trousers betrays his arousal.

“Enough,” he commands, his voice dropping. “Now your jeans.”

I slide the button through its hole and ease the jeans over my hips, letting them fall past my thighs.

The wide-cut denim drops easily over my stilettos to pool at my feet.

Half-dressed before him, I’m left in my partially unbuttoned camisole that barely reaches my navel, my delicate white silk panties, and my stilettos.

When I bend to remove my shoes, his sharp “No” freezes my fingers mid-reach.

There’s no mirror in Dante’s office, but I must look completely exposed and vulnerable.

“Approach,” he commands.

My body responds and my clit throbs before my mind can process his words.

The leather-scented air feels thick, oppressive.

I can’t tear my eyes from Dante’s forearms, exposed by his methodically rolled sleeves. I notice his corded muscles tensing as he grips the armrests of his chair.

Heat blooms across my skin despite the cool air of the office.

When I don’t move fast enough, Dante’s hands lift me by the waist. He spins me around and pulls me down onto his lap. Then he positions me so my bare stomach presses against the hard ridge straining against his expensive trousers.

The heat of him burns through the fabric, making my breath catch.