Page 57 of Second Chance Daddy
Then he stops.
Freezes.
His eyes drag over me, slow, dangerous, pupils blown wide as they land between my thighs.
“No panties?” His voice drops an octave, pure sin. “Naughty little thing.”
Heat slams through me, pooling low, my pulse tripping all over itself. I didn’t plan this—just threw on the first thing after my shower—but the way he’s looking at me? Like I choreographed this whole damn disaster?
Yeah. Feels really orchestrated now.
“Wasn’t expecting company,” I shoot back, breathless, trying to cling to some ounce of dignity.
His eyes narrow, full of challenge, full of knowing. That smirk curves cruel at the edges. “Liar.”
Then he’s on me, tearing at my thin cotton robe, pushing it off my shoulders. His hands find my camisole next, and I arch up, letting him pull it over my head. Cool air hits my bare skin, nipples tightening as his gaze devours me.
“Fuck,” he breathes, reverent, voice thick, thumb brushing slow circles over my aching peak. His other hand ghosts down mythigh, staking his claim without saying a word. “You don’t even know what you do to me, Cass.”
My pulse hammers. My brain short-circuits.
I know exactly what I do to him.
And I’m about to let him do worse.
My back bows off the bed at his touch, every nerve ending lit up like I’m wired straight into the damn power grid. A whimper rips from my throat, pathetic and needy, but I don’t even care.
He doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t race to the good part like some overeager frat boy.
No—Dante savors, dragging this out like a man with all the time in the world and no intention of letting me off easy. His fingers roll my nipples between them, slow and punishing, watching every twitch of my body like he’s mapping out my destruction.
“Dante,” I gasp, hips rocking up, searching for friction, for him, for anything that’ll kill the ache crawling under my skin. “Please?—”
His mouth curves against my breast, dangerous and dark. “Patience, baby,” he drawls, bending lower to take one tight peak into his mouth. He sucks hard, teeth grazing just enough to make me cry out, back arching, thighs clenching.
“You’ve been fighting me for days,” he mutters against my skin, the rough scrape of his stubble sending goosebumps racing down my spine. “Now I’m taking my time. Call it punishment.”
Heat rolls through me, sharp and messy, the ache building low, molten, impossible to ignore.
But even as he plays it cool, I see it—the cracks in his control.
His hands shake, just barely. His jaw is clenched so tight it could snap. His eyes? Black with hunger. Dante Romano’s unraveling, and I’m the reason.
Good.
He stands, jerking his shirt over his head with none of the patience he just preached. My mouth dries out at the sight—hard muscle, ink trailing down his arms, curling around his ribs, disappearing under the waistband of his jeans.
I swallow, my thighs clenching tight.
God help me, I want him to wreck me.
His jeans hit the floor, kicked off with sharp frustration, and then he’s naked—completely, gloriously, terrifyingly naked.
My eyes drag down, pulse jackknifing at the sight of him—thick, hard, heavy, already flushed with need. My body remembers exactly how he feels inside me.
Every inch.
