Page 13 of Claimed By the Don

"We should get back out there," I finally manage, my voice a rasp. "Before someone notices we're missing."

Dante looks like he wants to argue, his hands flexing on my hips. But after a beat he nods curtly, seemingly wrestling himself back under control.

"Go find the ladies room and freshen up," he says, stepping away to put some distance between our overheated bodies. "I'll be along in a minute. Just need a second to...collect myself." He flashes me a wry grin, gesturing to the impressive tent in his trousers.

A bolt of feminine pride zaps through me at the sight, satisfaction curling in my gut. It's a heady rush, knowing I can reduce this powerful man to base need. That he craves my body as much as I crave his.

With a final heated glance, I visit the restroom to survey the damage, then slip back out into the ballroom on watery legs. No one spares me a second look as I weave through the glittering throng, too caught up in their own gossip and machinations to notice me. My skin feels electrified, my body still humming with the aftermath of Dante's touch. I know I'll be on edge for the rest of the night, desperate for him to finish what he started in some dark corner. My blood heats further at the debauched image.

As I snag a fresh flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, I see Dante emerge from the alcove out of the corner of my eye. He's impeccable once more, not a hair out of place, looking every inch the cool, untouchable Don. But when our gazes collide across the room, I spy the barely banked heat in those espresso eyes. The promise of retribution to come.

My stomach swoops even as I tear my eyes away, a blush staining my cheeks.

I'm scanning the crowd for a familiar face to act as buffer between me and my lover when a snippet of conversation snags my attention. Dante's name, spoken in a cruel undertone.

"...little fool. As if Dante Russo would ever truly care for someone so far beneath him. He's clearly just using her to distract from his family's unsavory business."

Ice slides down my spine, even as I strain to hear more over the thunder of my pulse. Distracting myself from turning, I keep my face carefully blank as I cock my head subtly in the direction of the hushed voices.

"Well, can you blame him? With a body like that, I'd let that curvaceous little tart distract me any day." Male, the leer clear in his reedy tenor.

A female scoff. "The silly girl actually thinks he's falling in love with her. I almost pity her. No doubt Russo will drop her the second he grows bored of her charms." A mean little laugh. "I give it a week, tops."

Bile surges up my throat, hot and acidic. The words shouldn't be a revelation - I've heard variations of them my whole life. Poor little scholarship student trying to claw her way into the glittering world of the elite. A charity case, an amusement. A distraction.

But to hear them applied to Dante, to what we have...it's a brutally efficient blade to my heart. Puncturing the glorious bubble I've allowed myself to float in these past few weeks, oblivious to reality.

Because they're right, aren't they? What could Dante possibly see in me beyond a pretty face and a willing body? He's surrounded by glamorous debutantes, highborn women who are his equal in every way. Women who could stand proudly by his side, not merely decorate his arm.

"...know his game. Seduce the naive young art student, make her feel special and desired..."

"...probably end with a new piece for his collection and a nice fat check to shut the poor girl up..."

I don't realize I'm moving until I'm out of the ballroom, my heels slamming onto gleaming marble as I flee. Somewhere behind me, I hear Dante calling my name, alarmed. But I don't stop, can't face him right now.

My vision blurs with tears as I stumble out into the muggy night, frantically scanning the street for a cab. I need to get away, clear my head. Nurse my broken heart in peace.

How could I have been so blind? So stupidly naive? I let myself get swept up in the fantasy, bewitched by Dante's practiced charm and hungry touch. I was just another conquest to him, a shiny new toy to play with until he got bored. A way to thumb his nose at the circles he moves in, bring a bit of rough trade to liven up the party.

The thought sends a vicious pain lancing through my chest, even as humiliation and anger swell to choke me. God, I feel so used. So utterly foolish. Dante's no doubt laughing at me with his cronies right now, amused by the silly little girl who thought she was special.

By the time I finally hail a taxi, hot tears are coursing down my cheeks. I'm pathetically grateful for the disinterested sneer on the cabbie's weathered face, for the buffer of apathetic near-silence as he weaves through late night traffic. My phone keeps buzzing with incoming calls but I ignore it, unable to bear seeing Dante's name flashing accusingly across the screen.

The second I stumble into my apartment, I tear off the glittering trappings of the night. The diamonds that felt so decadent just hours ago, the fantasy I allowed myself to spin. They're just cheap trinkets now, a shiny lure meant to deceive. I let the designer gown pool carelessly at my feet, uncaring that the delicate fabric will wrinkle. What does it matter anymore? Cinderella's ball is over. The clock has struck midnight and I'm left with nothing but ashes and regrets.

I fall into bed in just my thin satin slip, not bothering to remove my makeup or pin up my hair. My body aches, empty and too full all at once. Every place Dante touched me seems to throb in memory, mocking me with crude facsimiles of pleasure. I'm restless in my own skin, a livewire and don't know whether to scream or cry or touch myself roughly, angrily, until I can smother this horrible feeling clawing at my guts.

In the end, I simply curl into a ball and let the wracking sobs come. I cry for my stupidity, my naiveté, my arrogance in believing that I could ever be enough to hold a man like Dante. That I would ever be more than a bit of rough to him, an itch to scratch when the fancy took him.

I don't know how long I lay there, staring blankly at the dark ceiling as tears leak down my temples. Eventually, the gray light of dawn starts to creep across the floor, throwing the remnants of my discarded finery into stark relief. The sight sends a fresh wave of pain and humiliation crashing over me and I roll away with a low moan.

The phantom press of Dante's hands, the wicked words he whispered into my skin as he took me apart... they linger like a bruise, throbbing in time with my shattered pulse. I know I need to scrub him from my mind, cauterize the wounds with deliberate indifference.

But the awful truth is, even now, even after everything...my treacherous body still yearns for him. Still craves the drug of his touch, the ecstasy of his possession. And I don't know if I'm strong enough to deny myself forever.

I only pray that when I inevitably fall off the wagon, when I let Dante seduce me back into his bed...there will still be enough of me left to pick up the pieces after he discards me once more.

Chapter SIX

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