Page 96 of Ruthless Desire

"Tell me you want this," Dante growls, his hand sliding beneath the waistband of my soaked pants. "Tell me you want me."

"I – ah!" My words dissolve into a gasp as his fingers find my clit, circling with maddening precision. "Dante, please..."

He chuckles darkly, nipping at my earlobe. "That's not an answer, solnyshko. Use your words."

I want to hate him for this, for reducing me to a quivering mess with just a few touches. But the heat coiling in my belly drowns out any semblance of rational thought.

"Yes," I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, I want you. Please, Dante–"

My plea is cut off by his mouth crashing into mine, swallowing my moans as he slides two fingers inside me. The angle is awkward, our wet clothes a frustrating barrier, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the exquisite friction of his fingers pumping in and out, his thumb circling my clit with practiced skill.

"That's it," Dante murmurs against my lips. "Let go for me, Natalie. Show me how much you need this. How much you need me."

His words push me over the edge. I come with a strangled cry, my body convulsing around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash over me. Dante works me through it, drawing out every last aftershock until I'm a trembling, overstimulated mess.

As I come down from my high, reality starts to seep back in. What the hell did I just do? How could I let myself get swept up in the moment like that?

Dante must sense my inner turmoil, because his expression shifts from smug satisfaction to something almost gentle. "Hey," he says, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. "No regrets, okay? What happens between us... it's inevitable. You can keep fighting it if you want, but we both know how this ends."

I want to argue, to tell him he's wrong. But the words stick in my throat, because deep down, I know he's right. Whatever this thing is between us – love, lust, Stockholm syndrome – it's too powerful to deny forever.

The sound of an approaching helicopter shatters the moment. Dante tenses, his hand going to the gun at his hip. But as the aircraft comes into view, he relaxes slightly.

"It's Enzo," he says, relief evident in his voice. "We're safe. For now."

As the helicopter touches down on the rocky shore, kicking up a spray of sand and seawater, I can't help but wonder – is anywhere truly safe when you're with Dante Corleone?

The ride to wherever Enzo is taking us is tense, filled with meaningful glances between Dante and his right-hand man. I catch snippets of their hushed conversation – words like "traitor" and "retaliation" that make my stomach churn.

By the time we land at a secluded villa nestled in the hills, night has fallen. Enzo ushers us inside, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by grim determination.

"The safe room is ready," he tells Dante. "I've got men sweeping the perimeter, but we should be clear for now."

Dante nods, his arm a possessive weight around my waist. "Good. We need to regroup, figure out our next move." He turns to me, his dark eyes intense. "You should get some rest, solnyshko. It's been a long day."

I bristle at being dismissed so easily. "I'm not some child you can send to bed, Dante. I deserve to know what's going on."

A muscle ticks in his jaw, but before he can respond, Enzo steps in. "Perhaps the signorina would like a hot shower first? I'm sure we can find some clean clothes for her as well."

The thought of washing away the grime and salt is tempting, but I hesitate, not wanting to be shuffled off and kept in the dark.

Dante must sense my reluctance, because his expression softens slightly. "Go on, Natalie. Get cleaned up. I promise we'll talk after, okay?"

I study his face, searching for any sign of deception. Finding none, I nod reluctantly. "Fine. But I'm holding you to that promise."

As I follow one of Enzo's men to a lavish bathroom, I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something crucial. That beneath the surface of Dante's cool exterior, a storm is brewing.

And I have a sinking suspicion that I'm going to be caught right in the middle of it.

The hot water sluicing over my battered body is heaven, washing away the physical reminders of the day's chaos. But no amount of soap can cleanse the turmoil in my mind.

I replay the events of the past few hours on a loop – the attack on the villa, our harrowing escape, that moment of raw desperation on the beach. My cheeks burn at the memory of Dante's hands on me, the way I'd shamelessly begged for his touch.

What the hell is wrong with me? How can I still want him after everything he's done?

But even as I berate myself, I know it's futile. The pull between us is magnetic, an inexorable force that defies logic or reason. I'm drawn to Dante's darkness as much as I fear it, craving the intensity he brings out in me even as I long for freedom.

I step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a plush towel. The clothes laid out for me are simple but expensive – soft leggings and an oversized sweater that smells faintly of Dante. The possessive gesture should irritate me, but instead, it sends a shiver of something like anticipation down my spine.

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