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“Soundproof,” he said.
“You told him to drive until you asked him not to.”
“Undoubtedly he knows,” Dante said. “But why should I be ashamed? Why should I be ashamed that I can’t keep my hands off you? That I need to have you now. That I cannot wait until we are safely ensconced in the penthouse.”
He was asking himself that question as much as he was asking her.
“Why should I be ashamed of you?” he said, their eyes meeting. He pulled her dress down as far as he could, until he met resistance at her hips. Then he moved down her body, grabbing hold of the hem of her skirt and pushing it upward. He exposed her legs, grabbed the center of her panties and swept them aside, exposing the heart of her. “How could I ever be ashamed of you?”
He pressed his fingers down against her, spreading her wide, then leaning in to taste her. Deep and lavish and long.
She tasted like Minerva. Amazing how distinct that had become to him. Unmistakable. This woman.
This woman.
One who had known more versions of him than any other woman he had ever taken as a lover.
But she was more than a lover.
More than his friend’s sister, that was for damn sure.
She was his wife.
He growled, his ministrations on her body intensifying, surging forward, his hands joining in with his mouth as he pleasured her. As he pushed her to new heights. As he kept at her until she cried out. Until she pulsed with pleasure, her orgasm crashing over her, causing her to shake and shudder out his name.
After that, he couldn’t wait anymore. Couldn’t wait to join himself to her. He needed her. And he didn’t want to admit to need. It was anathema to him. This feeling in his chest. The sense that he no longer belonged to himself.
That somewhere along the line he had lost some of himself in her.
But he couldn’t stop himself either.
No. All he could do was take control.
“Up here, sweetheart,” he said, lifting her and then turning her so that she was facing away from him, her face to the window, to the cars that were passing them by.
“Dante...”
“No one can see,” he said. “The windows are tinted.”
“Oh,” she said. And he wondered if that was what she was even asking him about. Or if there was something about this that bothered her.
It wasn’t up to her.
“I’m going to take you like this,” he said, his voice rough.
He undid the closure on his pants and freed himself, pressing the blunt head of his arousal to the entrance of her body. Sliding into her was like coming home. She was perfect. In this, they were perfect. This was right, it was good. Because she needed him. This wasn’t simply his wild need. No, she was right there with him. And that made him feel powerful. That reminded him that he was the one in control. Not her.
He plunged into her, and she gasped, arching against him. And he gripped her hips, slamming her back against him. She whimpered, her face pressed against the window.
“Dante,” she whispered.
Over and over she said his name as he drove himself home. Until she was sobbing his name. Until she couldn’t control herself at all.
Until he felt like he had fixed some of what had gone wrong inside him.
He knew this. And he knew who he was.
This was only sex. That was all.
