Page 6 of Claimed By the Don

Because I told Ginetta no more waiting. And a Russo always keeps his word.

Chapter THREE

Ginetta

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I've always found solace in art, losing myself for hours in the graceful lines of a sculpture or the lush strokes of an oil painting. But today, walking through the hushed halls of the Met, I'm finding it impossible to concentrate on the priceless works surrounding me. Not with Dante's heat pressing against my side, his breath stirring the fine hairs at my nape every time he leans in close to murmur in my ear.

"Exquisite," he says, and I know he's not talking about the Degas we're standing in front of. Not with the way his molten gaze drags over my figure, touching me everywhere like a physical caress.

I suppress a shiver, trying to focus on the ballet dancers floating across the canvas and not the way Dante's hand rests possessively at the small of my back. He's been touching me all morning, each casual brush of skin on skin stoking the ever-present embers of my desire for him. A hand cupping my elbow as we climbed the museum steps, fingers grazing my hip as he guided me through a doorway. Every carefully measured touch is a reminder of the scorching passion we've barely kept at bay, a silent promise of the pleasure hovering just out of reach.

It's maddening. Dante is maddening, with his dark suits and darker eyes, the way he looks at me like he wants to consume me whole. Like I'm the most intriguing piece of art he's ever seen and he won't be satisfied until he's mapped every inch of me with those wickedly talented hands.

I thought I was doing the smart thing that night at his penthouse, putting some much-needed distance between us before I tumble headlong into his bed. His velvety words of possession still echo in my ears: "When you are ready, I'm going to take you apart, piece by piece, until you're begging for me." The memory never fails to make me shudder. In the days since, I've lost count of how many times I've gotten myself off to the fantasy of Dante's hard body pinning me down, his lips and teeth and tongue taking their pleasure in my revved-up flesh.

But in the light of day, I know I need to keep my wits about me with this man. Dante isn't someone to be taken lightly. He's older, powerful, clearly used to getting what he wants. And what he wants...is me. Totally, completely. I can't afford to be cavalier with my heart or my body, no matter how tempting he makes it to just surrender.

So I've been trying to take things slow, keep our interactions firmly in daylight. I readily accepted his invitation to tour the museum together, thinking the public setting would force us to keep things PG. I should have known better. Apparently, nothing can stop the sexual tension from crackling between us like a live wire.

I can feel the weight of Dante's stare on my face now, tracing my features like he's committing them to memory. Electricity crackles over my skin, making me feel too warm in my sundress.

"What are you thinking about, tesoro?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. "You look a thousand miles away."

I dart a glance at him, my heart rate kicking up at the predatory gleam in his eyes. He looks like he wants to eat me alive. I lick my suddenly dry lips and his gaze drops to my mouth, pupils flaring.

"I'm thinking that if you keep looking at me like that, we're going to get kicked out of here for public indecency," I manage, trying for glib. It comes out far too breathless.

Dante grins, a flash of white teeth. "Sounds like a good time to me. Why don't we get out of here and go somewhere I can look at you however I want?" He leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he adds in a dark rasp, "Touch you however I want?"

I shudder, liquid heat pooling low in my belly. The thought of his hands on me, his big body pressing me into a mattress - or a wall, or any sturdy surface - has me clenching my thighs. But I can't let myself give in to the sexual pull between us yet. Not if I want to keep any scrap of self-preservation intact.

Pulling away slightly, I shoot Dante a warning look, though I'm sure my flushed cheeks undermine the stern effect. "Keep your hands to yourself, mister. This is an art appreciation date, not an anatomy lesson."

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes at the word "date" and his hand flexes on my hip. But he merely chuckles, the sound dark and promising. "I'd love to appreciate your art, Ginetta. And trust me, I'd be very thorough in my lesson."

My face flames at the blatant innuendo as I picture Dante's dark head buried between my thighs, his tongue doing wickedly talented things. I physically shake myself free of the sultry images before I spontaneously combust on the spot. Damn this man and his ability to reduce me to a hormonal puddle of goo with a few silky words.

I clear my throat and step pointedly away from his touch, needing distance if I'm going to keep my head on straight. "As ah, educational as that sounds, I'd much rather get some lunch. I'm starving."

Dante's lips quirk but he allows the subject change, holding his hand out with a flourish. "Then let's feed you, tesoro. I know just the place."

It turns out "just the place" is a tiny Italian cafe tucked away from the hustle and bustle of Fifth Avenue. The maître d’ greets Dante like an old friend, ushering us to an intimate corner booth dripping in Old-World charm. Dante helps me slide onto the plush red leather, his hands lingering on my waist a few seconds too long. I feel the imprint of his touch like a brand even after he moves away to sit opposite me.

The table is so small that our knees bump underneath and I feel the jolt of awareness all the way to my core. It takes a Herculean effort to keep my eyes on my menu and not the way Dante's charcoal grey henley stretches across his broad chest. I studiously read the appetizer options, determined to keep things light and casual.

But Dante, it seems, has other ideas. As I reach for my water glass, I feel the unmistakable glide of his palm smoothing up my bare thigh beneath the table. I inhale sharply, almost upsetting the glass, and shoot him a startled look. He meets my gaze with a heated one of his own, his fingertips drawing maddening whorls on my sensitive skin.

"Dante," I hiss, trying to keep my voice down. "What are you doing?"

His lips quirk into a half-smile but he doesn't stop his sensual assault on my thigh. If anything, his touch grows bolder as he teases the lacy edge of my panties. "Tell me, Ginetta," he says, his deep voice sending shivers cascading down my spine. "What's your favorite pasta shape? I'm partial to orecchiette myself."

Is he seriously asking me about pasta right now? While his magic fingers are inching dangerously high on my leg? The man has nerve, I'll give him that. "Um," I stammer, finding it exceptionally difficult to concentrate with his skin on mine. "I like...penne?"

"Mmm." Dante's eyes gleam in the low light. "There's nothing quite like the pleasure of a perfect mouthful. Wouldn't you agree?" His fingers trail along the sensitive crease of my thigh and I nearly shoot out of my seat. He smirks at my full-body shudder. "Are you wet for me, bella? I'm dying to feel your sweet honey on my tongue."

"Dante," I manage again, my voice strangled. God, how can he have me this worked up with barely a touch? And in public, no less? My earlier brave front is quickly crumbling under his sensual assault. "We can't do this here."

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