Chapter 3: Breakfast with the Devil
1634 Words
Morning light sliced through the blackout curtains like knives.
Elena woke with a start, sheets twisted around her legs, skin damp with sweat. The dream clung to her—Dante’s hands on her hips, his mouth at her throat, that low growl of mine vibrating through her bones until she woke gasping, thighs slick, fingers still curled between them from where she’d touched herself in the dark.
She yanked her hand away like it burned.
The clock on the nightstand read 7:42 a.m.
No alarm. No knock. Just the quiet certainty that he expected her soon.
She stumbled into the attached bathroom—smaller than his, but still luxurious—splashed cold water on her face, brushed her teeth with the new toothbrush laid out like she’d always belonged here. The mirror showed a stranger: flushed cheeks, swollen lips from biting them to stay quiet, eyes too bright.
She hated how alive she looked.
In the walk-in closet he’d pointed out last night, everything was arranged by color, size, occasion. Casual section first. She grabbed the least revealing thing she could find: soft black leggings, an oversized cream sweater that fell to mid-thigh, thick socks. No bra—none of them felt right against her sensitive skin this morning. She told herself it was practicality.
Liar.
She left her hair loose, still damp from the quick shower, and padded barefoot into the main living area.
The penthouse smelled like coffee and sin.
Dante was already there—standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, back to her, phone to his ear. Black suit today, tailored to murderous perfection, but no tie. The top button of his shirt was undone again, revealing the edge of a tattoo that disappeared beneath the fabric. He spoke in low Italian, clipped, dangerous. Even without understanding the words, she felt the threat in them.
He ended the call without goodbye. Turned.
His eyes found her instantly.
For one long second he didn’t move. Just looked. From her bare feet, up the leggings that clung to her thighs, over the sweater that slipped off one shoulder, to her face. His jaw flexed. Once. Hard.
“Buongiorno,” he said, voice rougher than last night. “You’re late.”
“I didn’t know there was a schedule.”
“There is now.” He gestured to the long glass table set for two. Black plates. Crystal glasses. A spread that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel: fresh fruit, pastries, eggs Benedict, coffee steaming in a French press. “Sit.”
She hesitated.
His brow lifted. “Or I carry you. Again.”
She walked.
He pulled out her chair—gentlemanly, mocking—and waited until she sat before taking his own across from her. The table was wide, but he still felt too close.
He poured coffee for both of them. Black. Strong. Pushed hers toward her without asking how she took it.
“Eat,” he said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Liar.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Your lips are trembling. Your stomach growled twice while you stood there staring at me.”
Heat crawled up her neck. She picked up the fork anyway. Speared a strawberry. Bit into it. Juice burst across her tongue; a drop escaped to her bottom lip.
His eyes tracked it.
She licked it away instinctively.
Dante’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Something dark flickered in his expression—hunger that had nothing to do with breakfast.
“Careful,” he murmured. “I have excellent self-control. Until I don’t.”
She set the fork down. “What do you want from me, exactly? Besides the obvious.”
He leaned back, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled. “Everything.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” He sipped his coffee. Watched her over the rim. “You’re here because your father owed me more money than he could ever repay. He chose to pay with you. I accepted. End of negotiation.”
“So I’m… what? Your live-in w***e?”
His cup hit the saucer with a soft clink. “You’re whatever I decide you are.” He leaned forward. Voice dropped. “Right now? You’re the woman who’s going to learn exactly how good it feels to be owned by someone who knows what the f**k he’s doing.”
Her breath caught.
He noticed.
“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he said quietly. “The pull. The heat. The way your body responds every time I get close. Tell me you didn’t wake up this morning aching for fingers that weren’t yours.”
She looked away. Out the window. At the city far below. Anywhere but him.
Silence stretched.
Then his chair scraped back.
He rounded the table in three strides. Stopped behind her.
She stiffened.
His hands settled on the back of her chair—close enough that she felt the heat of his palms through the wood.
“Stand up.”
“No.”
A beat.
Then his fingers slid into her hair—gentle at first, then fisting just enough to tilt her head back so she had to look up at him.
“Stand. Up.”
Her legs obeyed before her mind could argue.
He turned her slowly until she faced him. The chair was between them like a flimsy barrier.
He stepped around it.
Now nothing separated them.
He was so tall she had to crane her neck. So close she could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the tiny scar under his eye, the way his pupils had blown wide.
One hand came up. Cupped her cheek. Thumb brushed her lower lip—slow, deliberate.
“You’re shaking again,” he whispered.
“I’m angry.”
“You’re wet.” His other hand slid to her waist. Slipped under the hem of the sweater. Found bare skin. His palm was hot. Rough. Callused in ways that spoke of violence and control. “I can feel your pulse racing right here.” His thumb pressed against the frantic beat under her jaw. “And here.” Lower. Over her ribs. “And here.”
His hand drifted down. Cupped her through the leggings—firm, possessive, no hesitation.
Elena gasped. Her hips jerked forward involuntarily.
He groaned—low, guttural.
“f**k,” he breathed. “Soaked already.”
She grabbed his wrist. Not to push him away. Just… to hold on.
“Don’t,” she whispered. But it sounded like a plea.
“Don’t what?” His fingers flexed. Pressed. Circled once—slow, torturous. “Don’t touch what’s mine? Don’t make you come right here against my hand while you pretend you hate me?”
Her knees buckled.
He caught her. Spun them until her back hit the table edge. Lifted her effortlessly onto it—plates rattling, coffee sloshing.
She was spread before him now—legs parted just enough for him to step between them.
He didn’t kiss her.
Not yet.
Instead he leaned in until their foreheads touched. Breathed her in.
“I could take you right now,” he said against her mouth. “Slide these leggings down. Spread you open. f**k you slow until you’re crying my name. Or fast. Until the whole building hears how pretty you sound when you break.”
Her nails dug into his shoulders.
“But I won’t.” His lips brushed hers—barely a touch. “Not until you ask.”
She whimpered.
“Say it,” he ordered. “Say you want it.”
She shook her head. Tears pricked her eyes—not from fear. From the unbearable pressure building inside her.
He pulled back just enough to look at her face.
Then—slowly, deliberately—he slid his hand back between her thighs. Over the fabric. Rubbed in tight, perfect circles.
Her head fell back. A broken sound escaped her throat.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “Let it out.”
She was trembling. So close. So embarrassingly close.
His free hand tangled in her hair again. Tugged her head forward so their eyes locked.
“Look at me when you come.”
She shattered.
No warning. No buildup she could fight. Just white-hot pleasure exploding through her core, thighs clamping around his hand, back arching off the table. She cried out—his name, a curse, something incoherent.
He held her through it. Ground his palm against her until every aftershock wrung her dry.
When she finally sagged, boneless, he caught her against his chest. Let her hide her face in the crook of his neck.
His heart was pounding as hard as hers.
For a long minute neither spoke.
Then he kissed her temple—soft. Almost tender.
“Breakfast is cold,” he said quietly.
She laughed—shaky, disbelieving.
He pulled back. Looked at her with something new in his eyes. Not just hunger. Possession. Pride. Something dangerously close to softness.
“Eat,” he said again. This time gentler. “You’ll need your strength.”
“For what?”
His thumb traced her swollen bottom lip.
“For tonight.”
He lifted her off the table. Set her on her feet. Steadied her when her legs wobbled.
Then he walked back to his chair like nothing had happened. Picked up his coffee. Took a sip.
“Sit,” he said calmly. “We have a long day ahead.”
Elena stared at him—hair wild, cheeks flushed, leggings damp, body still humming.
She sat.
Because running wasn’t an option anymore.
Not when the devil had already made her come harder than anyone ever had.
And he hadn’t even taken his clothes off.
Yet.
- Writer
