Chapter 5: Dinner and Dangerous Games
1478 Words
The dress Dante chose for her was a weapon.
It arrived in a sleek black box tied with a blood-red ribbon while she was still recovering in the shower—legs weak, skin flushed, mind spinning from the way his mouth had wrecked her on that velvet chaise. When she opened the box, the fabric spilled out like liquid sin: deep crimson silk, backless, with a plunging neckline that would barely contain her breasts and a slit up one thigh so high it flirted with indecency.
No bra. No panties. Just the dress and a pair of strappy black heels that screamed *f**k me*.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then she put it on.
Because refusing felt like admitting how deeply he’d already gotten under her skin.
When she stepped out of her room at 7:30 sharp, Dante was waiting in the foyer. Black tuxedo cut to perfection, hair swept back, a single blood-red pocket square matching her dress. He looked like sin wrapped in money and violence.
His eyes dragged over her slowly. From the swell of her cleavage, down the curve of her waist, to the bare skin revealed by the thigh-high slit.
“f**k,” he breathed. One word. Raw.
He crossed the space between them in two strides. One hand slid around her waist—possessive, hot against bare skin. The other cupped her jaw, tilting her face up.
“You’re going to test every ounce of my control tonight,” he murmured against her lips. Not kissing her. Just letting his breath tease her. “And I’m going to enjoy watching you squirm.”
Before she could answer, he led her to the private elevator.
The ride down was silent tension. His hand never left the small of her back—thumb stroking idle circles on her skin that made her n*****s tighten against the silk.
The car waiting outside was a matte-black Rolls Royce. He held the door for her like a gentleman, but when she slid in, his palm brushed the exposed skin of her thigh—deliberate, lingering.
Dinner was at La Ombra, the most exclusive restaurant in the city. Hidden on the top floor of a skyscraper, all dark glass and low lighting, with a view that made the entire skyline look like it belonged to Dante.
Their table was private—corner booth, velvet curtains half-drawn, candlelight flickering. As soon as they were seated, a server appeared with chilled champagne. Dante dismissed him with a flick of his wrist.
He poured for both of them. Then leaned back, one arm draped along the back of the booth, fingers brushing the bare skin between her shoulder blades.
“Tell me about your art,” he said suddenly.
Elena blinked. “What?”
“You’re an art student. Or you were.” His fingers traced lazy patterns on her spine. “I want to know what makes you burn.”
She hesitated. Talking felt dangerous—more intimate than his mouth between her legs had been.
“I paint what I feel,” she said finally. “Chaos. Want. Things I can’t control.”
His eyes darkened. “Like me?”
“Especially like you.”
A slow smile. He lifted his glass. “To uncontrollable things.”
They clinked.
The first course arrived—delicate scallops, truffle oil, microgreens. Dante fed her the first bite from his own fork. His eyes locked on her mouth as she took it.
“Good?” he asked, voice low.
She nodded. Heat pooled low in her belly again.
Halfway through the main course—seared filet mignon that melted on the tongue—his hand disappeared under the table.
She froze.
His palm landed on her knee. Then slid higher. Through the slit in the dress. Higher still. Until his fingers brushed the bare, already-damp skin between her thighs.
“No panties,” he murmured approvingly. “Good girl.”
“Dante—” Her voice cracked.
“Shh.” His fingers parted her folds—slow, teasing. One thick finger circled her c**t once. Twice. “Keep eating. Act normal. Or everyone in this restaurant will know exactly how wet my little captive is for me.”
She gripped the edge of the table. Tried to focus on the food. Failed miserably.
He slid one finger inside her—deep, curling.
Her fork clattered against the plate.
He chuckled softly. “Careful.”
Two fingers now. Slow, deliberate thrusts while his thumb worked her c**t in perfect rhythm. The wet sounds were barely masked by the soft jazz playing overhead.
She was panting. Cheeks flushed. Breasts heaving against the silk.
“Look at me,” he ordered quietly.
She did.
His eyes were black fire.
“Come for me right here,” he whispered. “Quietly. Like the obedient little slut you’re becoming.”
The words should have humiliated her.
Instead they sent her flying.
She came hard—biting her lip until she tasted blood, thighs clamping around his hand, walls fluttering around his fingers. A tiny, broken whimper escaped despite her best efforts.
He kept stroking her through it. Gentle now. Prolonging every aftershock.
When she finally sagged against the booth, boneless, he withdrew his hand. Brought his fingers to his mouth. Sucked them clean—eyes never leaving hers.
“Delicious,” he said.
The dessert course arrived. She couldn’t even look at it.
Dante paid. Stood. Offered his hand.
In the elevator back down to the car, he didn’t wait.
The second the doors closed he had her pinned against the mirrored wall. Mouth crashing down on hers—hungry, devouring. One hand fisted in her hair. The other yanked the slit of her dress wider, fingers plunging back inside her without warning.
She moaned into his mouth.
He swallowed the sound. Ground his hard c**k against her hip.
“I’ve been hard since the moment you walked out in this dress,” he growled against her lips. “Thinking about bending you over this table. f*****g you until you scream my name loud enough for the whole city to hear.”
The elevator dinged.
He stepped back just as the doors opened—perfectly composed, while she looked thoroughly ravished: lips swollen, hair mussed, dress askew.
The driver didn’t comment.
Back in the penthouse, the tension snapped.
He didn’t carry her. He dragged her—hand tight around her wrist—straight to his bedroom.
The massive bed loomed.
He spun her. Unzipped the dress with one smooth tug. It pooled at her feet.
Naked now. Except for the heels.
He stepped back. Looked at her—really looked. Like she was the most precious and filthy thing he’d ever seen.
“On the bed,” he ordered. “On your knees. Face down. Ass up.”
Her heart hammered.
She obeyed.
The sheets were cool against her heated skin. She arched her back, presenting herself—embarrassed, aroused, trembling.
She heard his belt. Zipper. Clothes hitting the floor.
Then the bed dipped behind her.
His hands gripped her hips. Hard.
She felt the blunt head of his c**k nudge against her entrance—thick, hot, leaking.
He leaned over her. Chest to her back. Mouth at her ear.
“Last chance to beg nicely,” he rasped.
She pushed back against him instead.
He groaned. “f**k. Yes.”
Then he thrust in—slow at first, inch by devastating inch, stretching her until she felt impossibly full.
When he bottomed out, they both moaned.
He stayed there. Pulsing inside her. Letting her adjust.
Then he started to move.
Deep. Hard. Controlled strokes that hit every sensitive spot inside her.
One hand fisted her hair. The other reached around to rub her c**t.
“Mine,” he growled with every thrust. “This p***y is mine. This body. This f*****g soul.”
She was crying out now—loud, shameless.
He f****d her harder. Faster. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room.
“Come,” he demanded. “Come on my c**k like the good little w***e you are for me.”
She exploded.
Screaming his name. Walls clamping down around him. Vision whiting out.
He followed seconds later—burying himself to the hilt, roaring as he spilled deep inside her. Hot. Endless.
They collapsed together.
He didn’t pull out immediately. Just rolled them so she was draped over his chest, still connected, his arms wrapped around her like steel bands.
His lips brushed her forehead.
“Lesson five,” he whispered into her hair. “You were never just payment, Elena.”
She was too wrecked to answer.
But as sleep pulled her under—safe, sated, terrifyingly content—she realized the truth.
She was starting to believe him.
And that was more dangerous than any debt.
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