The heat of his lips is a sudden, bruising pressure that obliterates the remaining chill of the storm.
It isn’t a gentle kiss. It is a declaration of victory, a hard and demanding possession that tastes faintly of bitter espresso and the sharp, metallic tang of the night’s adrenaline. My hands fly to his chest, my fingers sinking into the crisp white cotton of his shirt, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart slamming against his ribs.
Dante groans, the sound a low, animal vibration in his throat. His arms wrap around my waist, lifting me slightly off my feet until I am pressed flush against the rigid line of his torso. The sheer, crushing mass of him should terrify me, but instead, an intoxicating wave of heat floods my veins. I open my mouth to his, matching his intensity, my knees turning to liquid beneath the weight of his hunger.
He shifts, his boots tracking a slow path across the dark rug, pushing me backward until the back of my knees hit the edge of the mattress.
We tumble onto the dark gray silk sheets together. Dante hovers over me, his massive frame blocking out the ambient glow of the fireplace, pinning me to the bed with his weight. His amber eyes burn down into mine, heavy-lidded and dark with a fierce, unchecked desire.
"Gianna," he growls, his large hands anchoring my wrists to the mattress above my head. His calloused thumbs stroke the sensitive skin of my inside wrists, his grip unyielding. "Tell me to stop now. Because if I don't, I am never letting you out of this bed. I am never letting you back into that bakery. You are mine."
I look up at him, my breathing ragged, my chest heaving against the cream cashmere of my sweater. For months, I thought I was the substitute. The ghost in the lace dress. The soft piece of flesh traded to keep a ledger clean.
But looking into the fiery depths of Dante’s gaze, I see no traces of my sister. I see no ghosts. He doesn't want a submissive puppet to play the part of a Donna. He wants the woman who handled his blood, who stood tall in his darkness, and who matched his fire with her own.
"Don't stop," I whisper, my voice raw but entirely steady in the quiet room. "I am already here, Dante."
A dark, predatory satisfaction settles into his features. He releases my wrists, his hands sliding down to grip the hem of my cream sweater. He pulls the heavy fabric up and over my head in one fluid, impatient motion, tossing it blindly into the shadows of the room.
The cool air of the bedroom hits my skin, but the chill lasts for only a second before Dante’s bare chest replaces it. He has discarded his shirt, leaving his broad shoulders and heavily muscled torso exposed to the firelight. A long, jagged scar runs across his left ribs, a reminder of the violent world he rules, but his skin is burning hot as he presses himself back down against me.
His mouth finds my neck, his lips tracing a trail of fire down my jawline to the sensitive dip of my collarbone. I arch into his touch, my fingers burying into the thick, damp waves of his dark hair, pulling him closer as a violent shiver of pure pleasure ripples straight down my spine.
The storm outside continues to rage, the wind rattling the heavy glass panes of the balcony, but inside the perimeter of the silk sheets, the war is already won. Every touch of his calloused skin is a brand, a heavy, permanent marker that erases the Romano name from my flesh piece by piece.
He moves lower, his hands sliding down to the button of my tailored trousers, his amber eyes locking onto mine in the dim light of the hearth. The muscle beneath his tanned cheek ticks with an unyielding intensity, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that seals our fate.
"You're mine, Gianna," he murmurs against my skin. "From this night until the city burns.”