Page 26 of Dante
"Get lost in your own head," she clarifies. "Retreat to that place where everything is black and white, where threats need to be eliminated and strategies plotted."
Her perception is unsettling. "Not everything in my world is bleak," I say, moving to sit beside her, close enough now that I can smell the subtle floral scent of her perfume, still clinging to her skin despite the evening's chaos. "I find time for enjoyment."
"Besides art, what do you enjoy?" she asks, turning slightly to face me, her knee brushing against my thigh.
"Food," I answer, thinking of our dinner earlier. "Travel. Good wine. Architecture, still, though I no longer design."
"More," she presses, her voice dropping lower. "Tell me something that would surprise me."
I look at her. The slight flush coloring her cheeks. The way she's leaned toward me, unconsciously seeking connection. The parting of her lips as she awaits my answer.
This is the moment. The opening I've been waiting for, consciously or not. If I don't take it now, I won't allow myself to take it at all.
Fuck it. I'm Dante Veneziano. What I want, I take. And right now, I want her, consequences be damned.
I close the distance between us, one hand coming up to cup her cheek as my mouth finds hers. Her lips are soft, yielding for a startled moment before responding with unexpectedhunger. She tastes like expensive scotch and something sweeter, something uniquely her.
I expect her to pull away, to slap me, to express outrage at my presumption. Instead, her hands come up to frame my face, fingers sliding into my hair as she deepens the kiss with a soft sound that vibrates through my chest and straight to my cock.
She moves with the same decisiveness she's shown all evening, shifting to straddle me, her dress hiking up around her thighs as she settles her weight across my lap. The feeling of her—warm, soft, alive—against my hardening cock draws a groan from deep in my throat.
My hands find her ass, gripping the firm curves through the thin fabric of her dress, pulling her closer against me. She rocks against my erection, seeking friction, her breathing becoming ragged against my mouth.
I open my eyes to find hers already open, watching me with a mixture of desire and uncertainty. She pulls back slightly, lips swollen from our kisses, chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Is this a mistake?" she whispers, her fingers still threaded through my hair.
I can't help the smirk that forms on my lips.
"Yes," I admit, sliding my hands up her sides, feeling her shiver at my touch. "It's absolutely a mistake. But it's going to be the most pleasurable mistake we've ever committed."
She laughs, the sound breathy and aroused. "I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't want you."
"And yet, here we are," I say, grinding up against her, watching her eyes flutter closed at the sensation.
"Here we are," she agrees, then crashes her mouth back to mine with renewed urgency.
I stand suddenly, gripping her thighs as she wraps them around my waist, her arms encircling my neck. Her slight weight is nothing to me as I carry her through the penthouse to my bedroom, our mouths still fused together, tongues battling for dominance.
The bedroom is dark except for the city lights filtering through the windows. I set her on her feet beside the bed, reluctantly breaking our kiss.
"Last chance to change your mind," I tell her, giving her space to retreat if she wants. "Once we start this, I won't be able to stop."
Elena looks up at me, her hair wild around her flushed face, lips swollen from my kisses. Instead of answering, she reaches behind herself and slowly lowers the zipper of her dress. The black fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a lace bra and matching panties.
"Do I look like I want to stop?" she challenges, voice husky with desire.
"Fuck," I breathe, taking in the sight of her. She's gorgeous. Curvy, smooth skin, her breasts full above the delicate lace, her hips flaring out to those thick thighs that had been wrapped around me moments ago.
I've been with beautiful women before. Models, actresses, socialites with bodies sculpted by the finest trainers and surgeons. None of them compare to Elena standing before me now, her body real and warm.
I reach for her, running my hands down her sides, feeling her shiver under my touch. "You're fucking beautiful," I tell her, voice rough with need. "More beautiful than any of the art on these walls."
She laughs softly, her fingers working at the buttons of my shirt. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Veneziano."
"Not flattery," I correct her, helping her push the shirt from my shoulders. "Just truth."
Her eyes widen as she takes in my bare chest, her fingers tracing the tattoo that covers my left pectoral and shoulder—a stylized Venetian lion, symbol of my family for generations. Then her gaze drops to the various scars that mark my torso. Knife wounds, bullet grazes, evidence of a violent life.
