As her eyes took in everything in the room, she felt him at her back.
Amara stilled, the new-found instinct inside flooding panic into her system with a presence at her back, flashbacks lingering on the fringes of her mind, waiting for her to open the floodgates.
She locked it shut tight, exhaling, urging her mind to feel safe. Dante was behind her. Dante, not anyone else. Her Dante, who would never hurt her. She trusted him.
But it wouldn’t leave, that feeling of being invaded. He didn’t know, or he’d never do it. And she couldn’t tell him, not without wanting to curl up into that ball of shame, even though she knew logically it wasn’t her fault. Sadly, emotion didn’t leave space for logic.
Swallowing, she simply stepped away from him, seemingly casual as she walked to one of the art pieces, a grey bowl with veins of gold running beautifully through it.
“That’s the ancient art of kintsugi,” his voice, that warm, husky, masculine voice of sinful chocolate and twisted sheets can from her side. “It’s the art of putting cracked or broken pieces of pottery together, repairing them with gold, and making a stronger, more stunning piece than the one before.”
Amara stared at the bowl, seeing the splendor of it. What she had thought artful veins of gold were, in fact, cracks where the bowl had broken. It was highlighting the cracks instead of hiding them.
“What place is this?” she asked him softly. She wasn’t entirely comfortable using her voice with him yet, but over the last few months, she had begun talking to him.
“It’s an art gallery. I’m going to buy it one day,” he replied in a tone that matched hers, his hot presence at her side. Feeling nothing behind her back had her relaxing a fraction more.
“And why are we here?” she moved her eyes from the bowl to look at him, surprised to see him dressed in a tux, holding a medium-sized box in his hands.
He looked down at her, the look in his eyes making her heart begin to pound for a different reason. The light from the outside fell on one side of his face, and her palms itched to trace the line of his jaw, to feel if it was as smooth as it looked or rough against her skin.
Surprising the hell out of her, he went down on one knee beside her.
What the hell was he doing?
Amara bit her lip as he opened the box, his eyes on hers, and revealed a pair of beautiful golden stilettos. They were gorgeous, with an ankle strap that crossed over the top, the thin heel a solid three inches.
She gulped. “It’s beautiful... but... I can’t wear heels,” she lilted through the words, explaining it to h
im.
“Trust me,” his eyes stayed on hers, fierce yet somehow soft.
Wiping her palms on the dress, she nodded.
He took the shoes out, placing the box to the side, and held her right ankle. Amara felt a current shoot up from the spot to her core, tingling her body in a way she had only felt with him before. He placed her foot on this knee, the slit of her dress gaping open, exposing her entire leg to him.
Amara saw his eyes rove over the exposed skin, before coming to hers, the heat in them knocking her breath out of her lungs.
“Ask me to kiss you,” he told her, his voice rough, grating over her skin in the most delicious friction.
Her toes curled on his thigh in reaction, her throat dry. God, she loved him and right then, she wanted him to take his fill, to touch, to devour. Every sexual fantasy she’d harbored for him in secret came to the fore of her mind. She didn’t know where he would kiss her if she asked, kneeling as he was, but she wanted it. She wanted him.
“Kiss me,” she whispered in the space between them, her heart racing.
His fingers tightened around her ankle fractionally, his eyes breaking their gaze to trace the line of her leg, stopping at the single, small scar from the knife in the middle of her thigh. He leaned forward, his mouth pressing to the spot, and Amara felt her head tip back, her breath coming out in a rush as all the blood in her body rushed to the spot to greet his lips. She tightened her grip on his shoulder, feeling his tongue softly lick the little scar. Her heart stuttered, the action causing wetness to pool between her legs, the significance of it causing her eyes to burn.
He pulled back, squeezing her ankle to get her eyes on his, his gaze so hot, so hungry it created a riot erupt her insides, his face so, so close to her mound she knew could scent her arousal.
“Ask me to kiss you,” he uttered again, his Adam’s apple bobbing over his collar, his jaw clenching once. She knew what he was asking. She knew exactly where his mouth would go if she asked him again, and though she should stop this madness, she couldn’t. Her body, while still hers, followed his commands.
She swallowed, feeling the heaviness in her breasts, her nipples standing to attention even though his eyes never wavered to them. Gliding her hands over his broad shoulders, feeling the muscles covered with his jacket under her palms, Amara slid her fingers into his hair for the first time, thrilling at being able to touch him like this.
“Kiss me, Dante.”
His eyes blazed as he put his left hand on the small of her back, steadying her, and tugged her ankle up, placing her knee over his shoulder. Amara felt herself lean back against the wall, her heart pounding as he widened her legs enough for the slit of her dress to gape. She felt him move, placing a soft kiss on the inside of her thigh, right where her thigh met her pussy, and for a second, she felt apprehension crawl over her skin.
Her palms began to sweat in what she identified as one of the first signs of her anxiety attack.