Page 74 of Ruthless Desire

There’s nowhere to run out here, nowhere to hide from the reality of what I’ve gotten myself into.

I find him on the aft deck, shirtless, his skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat that only highlights the power coiled beneath the surface. He’s lounging like a predator at rest, a bottle of champagne in one hand, two flutes in the other, the picture of decadent ease.

But I know better.

I know that every muscle is primed, every thought focused, and when he looks up at me, I feel the intensity of his gaze like a physical touch.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he says, his voice smooth as the bubbles dancing in the crystal glass he hands me. “Careful, moy voron. Keep frowning like that and you’ll mar that pretty face.”

I force myself to take the glass, my fingers trembling just slightly as they brush against his. The touch sends a jolt through me, as if he’s wired directly to my nerves. I want to hate him for it, for the way he can command my body with just a glance, a word, but hate is a slippery thing. It keeps slipping through my fingers, morphing into something else—something darker, more twisted.

I lift the glass to my lips, the effervescence tickling my nose as I take a small sip. “Maybe I want to be scarred,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intended. “Maybe then you’d finally lose interest.”

He laughs, a deep, rich sound that seems to vibrate through my very bones. “Oh, Natalie. Sweet, foolish Natalie. When will you learn? There’s no version of you I wouldn’t crave, wouldn’t destroy worlds to possess.”

Dante’s words send a shiver racing down my spine, a dark thrill that I can’t deny. Because I know he means it.

There’s a steel certainty in his voice, the same unwavering confidence he brings to everything he does. Resisting Dante is like trying to hold back the tide—futile, exhausting, the outcome inevitable.

I try to pull away, to put some distance between us, but he’s already moving, his arm snaking around my waist, pulling me down onto the chaise beside him. His thigh presses against mine, a scorching line of heat that makes my breath hitch.

“None of that now, don’t ruin this,” he chides, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You’ve been so good for me, little raven. Let me reward you.”

I want to resist, to throw up some kind of defense, but my body betrays me, leaning into him, craving the contact even as my mind screams at me to run. The cool kiss of champagne touches my lips again, this time guided by his hand, and I swallow reflexively, the bubbles a fleeting distraction from the storm inside me.

“There you go,” Dante murmurs, his voice laced with something like approval. “Just relax, let yourself feel. Let me make it good for you.”

His other hand drifts lower, toying with the knot of my robe, and I tense, my breath catching in my throat. His touch is gentle, almost tender, but there’s an undercurrent of possessiveness that makes my skin prickle with anticipation.

“Shh,” he soothes, his fingers slipping beneath the silk, skimming over my stomach, igniting a trail of fire in their wake. “You can fight me later, scream and thrash and tell me what a monster I am. But right now, in this moment? You’re going to let me adore you.”

The word lands like a blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. Because I know what Dante’s adoration entails. It’s not soft or kind; it’s a consuming, devouring force that will leave nothing of the girl I was behind. And yet, some twisted part of me yearns for it—yearns to be remade in the flames of his obsession.

I let my head fall back against his shoulder, my eyes sliding shut as I surrender to the inevitable. His hum of satisfaction vibrates through me, his touch growing bolder, more insistent as he pulls the robe open, baring me to the sun and his unyielding gaze.

“Magnificent,” he breathes, his hand molding over my breast, kneading the flesh with a reverence that’s almost painful. “A work of art, every inch of you. And all mine, to do with as I please.”

A whimper escapes me, my body arching into his touch, seeking more despite the voice in my head telling me to stop, to resist.

But there’s no resisting Dante… There never has been.

His fingers find my nipples, rolling and pinching them until sparks of electricity shoot straight to my core, making me gasp. I’m already wet, already aching for him, and he knows it.

He always knows.

“Please, Dante…” I whisper, the word a broken plea on my lips. “Don’t stop–”

"Please what, solnyshko?"

His tone is all dark amusement, his touch maddeningly gentle as it drifts lower, skimming over my ribs, my navel, coming to rest just above the throbbing apex of my thighs. "Use your words, tell me what you need."

I swallow hard, a battle raging between my pride and the clawing hunger his proximity ignites. He knows what I need, what I'm too ashamed to voice. But he'll make me say it anyway, the words a confession and a penance.

"Touch me," I manage, the syllables scraping like gravel in my throat. "Make me come. Make me forget everything..."

A low growl rumbles through his chest, resonant with masculine satisfaction.

"Good girl," he praises, dipping his fingers into my dripping folds. "So hot, so ready. Your greedy little cunt begs so sweetly for my attention."

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