Page 25 of Marked for Life

The vulnerability in his voice catches me off guard. This man who commands an empire with an iron fist, who takes what he wants without question—he's asking me. Not demanding. Asking.

I rise to my tiptoes and press my lips against his. Slowly, deliberately. This is my choice. The realization sends a thrill through me that I don't want to examine too closely.

His arms encircle me, lifting me against him as if I weigh nothing. He carries me to the bed—our bed, as he constantly reminds me—and lays me down with unexpected care. His body covers mine, but he holds himself above me, searching my face.

"Tell me you want this," he says, his voice rough with restraint. "Say the words, Hannah."

The moonlight filtering through the windows casts half his face in shadow, but I can still see the war raging behind his eyes. Control battling desperation. Possession fighting with something that almost looks like fear.

"I want this," I whisper, and the truth of it terrifies me. "I want you."

Something feral flashes across his features before he claims my mouth again, harder this time, hungrier. His hands are everywhere, leaving trails of fire across my skin as he removes my clothes with practiced efficiency. But there's an urgency to his movements that wasn't there before, as if he's afraid I'll change my mind.

"Mine," he growls against my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Say it."

"Yours," I breathe, arching into him. And in this moment, with his weight pressing me into the mattress and his scent enveloping me, I believe it. "I'm yours, Dante."

He stills above me, and I realize it's the first time I've said his name during our intimate moments without him forcing me to. Always before, I've been silent or defiant, calling him nothing atall unless he asked. The sound of his name on my lips willingly seems to break something loose inside him.

His movements become gentler, almost reverent, as he explores my body with his mouth and hands. He worships me in a way that feels like surrender, though I know better than to mistake it for weakness. This is just another facet of his possession—learning every part of me that responds to his touch, cataloging my gasps and sighs like weapons he'll use against me later.

Yet I can't bring myself to care, not when he's touching me like this, making me feel things I never thought possible. Not when he's looking at me like I'm both his salvation and his damnation wrapped in one.

"I've waited so long," he murmurs against my inner thigh, his breath hot against my skin. "So long for you to come to me willingly."

The pleasure builds as his mouth finds me, and I lose myself in sensation, in the skilled movements of his tongue and fingers. My release crashes over me in waves, his name a broken cry from my lips as my body shudders beneath him.

He doesn't give me time to recover. Dante moves up my body like a predator, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction at my undoing. My breath still comes in ragged gasps, my mind hazy with pleasure, when I feel him positioning himself between my thighs.

"Look at me," he demands, one hand cupping my jaw. "I want to see your eyes when I take what's mine."

I obey, meeting his gaze as he pushes into me slowly, deliberately. The stretch and fullness make me gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders. There's something different about this time—a connection that terrifies me more than his cruelty ever did.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice strained with restraint. "Take all of me."

When he's fully seated inside me, he pauses, his forehead dropping to mine. For a moment, we just breathe together, connected in the most intimate way. I can feel his heartbeat thundering through his chest, matching my own frantic rhythm.

"Tell me again," he whispers against my lips.

I know what he wants to hear. What scares me is how much I want to say it.

"I'm yours."

Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, possession, and something deeper I can't name. He begins to move then, his thrusts measured and deep. Each one pulls sounds from me I never knew I could make.

"Never forget this moment," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "When you chose me. When you surrendered."

Part of me wants to argue—to remind him of the circumstances that brought me here, of all the choices he's taken from me. But another part, the part currently burning under his touch, knows there's truth in his words. I did choose this moment. I did surrender.

And God help me, it feels like freedom.

His pace increases, his control slipping as pleasure builds between us. One hand slides beneath me, angling my hips to take him deeper, and stars explode behind my eyes.

"Dante," I cry out, my body tightening around him.

"Again," he growls. "Say it again."

"Dante, please?—"

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