His lips descend hard and rough on my mouth. He has one hand on my jaw, positioning how he wants me, holding me, claiming me.
This time I don’t bite him.
I give in to the darkness and temptation.
My lip’s part and I grant him access.
I shouldn’t want this. I should hate him.
I do hate him.
Despise him, in fact, but he’s Dante Ricci, and he gets whatever he wants.
What he wants is me.
His fingers trail a rough path over my hip, and I lift myself just enough to let him touch me if he so dares.
I want this. For the first time in days, I feel alive and there’s a spark of hope. But I’m conflicted that Dante is the one bringing me that light in the darkness.
Hate burns through me, and his hand wanders teasingly along my thighs and up towards my aching center.
He doesn’t give me what I want.
Why should he?
Dante paid for his pleasure, not mine.
His hands roughly push my hips back down on his lap. He’s forceful and not the least bit gentle. Dante’s breath caresses my neck as he whispers into my ear, “don’t you dare come, Kitten.”