Page 200 of Modern Romance October 2025 5-8
He laughed then and nodded. Apparently, he wasn’t above irritating his soon-to-be-wife, just for the sake of it.
Charlotte had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure everything about tonight screamed whatever the opposite of romance was. She’d chosen her most casual pair of jeans with a slouchy grey t-shirt that did nothing for her figure, scrubbed off all her makeup and scraped her hair back into a tight ponytail. All the lights in Jane’s place were switched to their max setting, not so much bathing the apartment in a golden glow as floodlighting it in bright white. She’d made no effort to tidy up, and she’d ordered Indian food from the restaurant down the street, that always used too much garlic in everything, because nothing screamed unromantic like garlic breath.
Because this was the night before they flew to Italy, and his grandmother, and it was their last chance to get to know each other better. Not only that, but Jane was also away in Athens, meaning they’d be home alone. There was no way she was going to let the essentialtête-à-têtebe mistaken for anything other than what it was—a study session.
What was that expression about perfectly laid plans?
Because for all Charlotte’s efforts to look like she hadn’t made any effort, the second she wrenched open the door, it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
Dante stood there, all way-too-handsome-billionaire in his tailored suit pants and crisp white shirt, tall, slimly muscled, dark and handsome, mysterious and brooding. Her heart popped, her pulse stormed and she wished, more than anything, that she’d at least glossed her lips.
Why, though? He took one look at her and dragged her against his body as though they hadn’t seen each other for a year, not a day, and kissed her so hard and fast that if shehadbeen wearing lip gloss, it would all have been smudged off immediately, anyway.
His hands lifted to the back of her hair, pushing at the elastic until it fell away, and then his fingers tangled in the long, red ends, tilting her head back so he could kiss her so much better, so much harder. Her body felt as though it had been hit with a burst of lightning. She tingled from head to toe. He smelled so good, so masculine and earthy. His shirt was a thick cotton, and it was warmed by his body. She pushed at it, lifting it out of his pants, so her fingers could connect to his bare chest.
‘Cristo, cara,’ he muttered, as she undid his zip and grasped him in the palm of her hands.
She pulled away from him, looking upwards. ‘Do you want me to stop?’
He looked down at her with something dark in his eyes, something that might have been resentment or fear, but her blood was pounding so hard and fast that all she could think—and feel—was the tumultuous rush of her own needs, overtaking everything else. Or maybe it was yet another way to prove to herself that, first and foremost, this was really just about sex. There was nothing else here, nothing more serious or complicated.
Smiling slowly, she dropped to her knees, the harsh curse that slipped from his lips only making her body throb with need because there was such a heady power in how quickly she could do this to him. She moved her head forwards, his hands in her hair stilling, his whole body frozen, as she took him inside and teased him with her tongue, her lips, until he was crying her name.
Only then did his hands move, slipping from her hair to her arms, lifting her quickly, bringing his mouth back to hers as he lifted her and wrapped her legs around his waist in one movement, stepping forward so her back was braced against the wall. Then, he drove into her, his voice rough and deep, her own cry one of absolute surrender and perfection. Her whole body was on fire, tingling, aching, needing. Her skin felt almost too sensitive to bear. When he took one of her nipples in his mouth and pressed his teeth against it, she sobbed because the pleasure was so utterly exquisite it was almost too much to handle.
His name was a mantra in her mind but she kept it there. Just his name. Just for her. She bit down onto her lower lip, rather than cry it out as she wanted to. And then, she was tumbling off the edge of an abyss. The pleasure an enormous tsunami swallowing them both up and roaring through the apartment with its own pounding, desperate ferocity.
They stood there, breathing fast and loud. Bodies sheened in a hint of perspiration. Eyes wide, lips bruised, the fast-paced urgency of their love making new even for them.
But it was just sex, she reminded herself, as she forced a smile to spread across her face and lifted a hand to his cheek. Casual, meaningless, easy-to-walk-away-from sex.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I think I needed that.’
His eyes flickered with something but then he was easing her down to the ground, face neutral. ‘Did something happen?’
She glanced up at him, confused.
‘A bad day?’
‘Oh.’ His concern did something trippy to her insides. She shook her head. ‘I just—,’ What? Meant that she needed reassurance that this was just physical? ‘It doesn’t matter.’
His lips quirked into a quick frown but then he turned away from her, looking deeper into the apartment. He’d never been here before. It was Jane’s place, though Jane always insisted that Charlotte should treat it as her own. But that wasn’t why she hadn’t brought him here before. It was her private space. Hers and Jane’s. Their sanctuary from the world. Charlotte had never actually brought anyone here. So why had she agreed for him to come over tonight?
When he’d suggested it, she hadn’t even thought to question the location. It had been a simple, ‘I can come to you. What time suits?’ kind of question and she’d simply focused on the matter of timing, texting him that as well as the address.
But now that he was here, all big and beautiful and expensive looking, Charlotte felt as though the bubble of her sanctuary had been ever so slightly burst.
‘This is where you live?’ he asked, as he moved into the living room and looked around. He’d tucked his shirt back into his pants and refastened the zip—he looked precisely as untouchable as he always did.
She tried to see the apartment through his eyes, but didn’t like the hint of vulnerability that brushed over her. He glanced over at Charlotte and her stomach dipped. Not wearing make-up or nice clothes had been a stupid, stupid decision, because both had always served as more than fashion choices. For Charlotte, they were armour. A way to keep her real self hidden. To present what she wanted to the outside world. And now, she’d let Dante see so much of her. Too much.
She swallowed past a heavy lump in her throat, glancing around the room again.
‘It’s my best friend’s place,’ she said, haltingly.
‘Jane,’ he supplied.
She shouldn’t have been surprised he remembered her name. Dante was nothing if not a details man.
