Chapter 7
1057 Words
A breath she didn’t know she was holding escaped her lips, shaky and soft. It wasn’t a word, but it was an answer.
A predatory gleam ignited in Dante’s eyes. His mouth descended toward hers, slower this time, giving her every chance to refuse. She didn’t. She met him halfway.
The kiss was different from before. Less a conquest, more an exploration. It was deep, languid, a slow tasting that made her head spin. His hands released her shirt and instead slid around her back, pulling her flush against the hard planes of his body. The heat of him seeped through their clothes, a brand that promised so much more.
He broke the kiss, his breath warm against her cheek. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a husky vibration.
Her eyelids fluttered open. The cold billionaire was gone. In his place was a man utterly consumed by a dark, delicious fire.
His fingers went back to her top, gathering the soft cotton. This time, he didn’t pause. He drew it up, over the swell of her breasts, and she instinctively raised her arms, a silent, breathtaking surrender. The fabric slipped over her head and was discarded onto the floor behind him.
The air felt cool on her bare skin. She stood before him in just her jeans, her chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. His gaze raked over her, scorching a path from her collarbone to the simple lace of her bra. A low, appreciative sound rumbled in his chest.
“Exquisite,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
His hand came up, not with force, but with a reverence that stole the air from her lungs. His knuckles brushed the sensitive skin just above the lace trim, and a violent shiver racked her body. He watched the reaction with intense fascination, a master studying his newest, most fascinating acquisition.
“So responsive,” he whispered, his thumb hooking under the centre strap that lay between her breasts. “So much fire, waiting for the right hand to stoke it.”
He applied the faintest pressure, pulling the lace away from her skin just a fraction. Arabella’s hands, which had been hanging limply at her sides, came up to clutch at his forearms, not to push him away but to anchor herself. The world had narrowed to this room, to this man, to the agonizingly slow descent of his mouth toward hers again.
Just as his lips were about to claim hers, the universe shattered.
CRASH.
The bedroom door exploded inward, splintering the frame. Silas stood in the doorway, his massive frame filling the space, a sleek black pistol held firmly in a two-handed grip, his eyes scanning the room with lethal efficiency before locking onto Dante.
Arabella jolted, a gasp ripping from her throat. She instinctively tried to cover herself, but Dante’s arm shot out, wrapping around her waist and pulling her behind him in one fluid, protective motion. Her front pressed against his back, her cheek against the fine wool of his suit jacket. She could feel the tense, ready power thrumming through his body.
“Report,” Dante snapped, his voice ice-cold, all traces of the passionate man gone in an instant. He didn’t sound startled, only intensely, dangerously annoyed.
Silas’s gaze didn’t waver. “He’s here, sir. Petrov. He’s in the lobby. Demanding an audience. Now.”
The name landed like a physical blow. Dante’s body went rigid against hers. She could feel the shift in him, the sharp, violent re-focusing of his entire being. The man holding her was no longer her reluctant lover; he was the Don, the ruthless businessman, the predator confronted by another of his kind.
A long, tense silence stretched out, broken only by the pounding of Arabella’s heart in her ears. She dared to peek around Dante’s shoulder. Silas’s expression was grim, his weapon still held at the ready, awaiting the order.
Dante’s head turned slightly, his profile harsh in the dim light. His grey eyes, when they found hers over his shoulder, were a turbulent storm of conflict. The heat was still there, banked but smouldering, a fire interrupted. But over it lay a darker, more familiar emotion: cold, calculating control.
He was weighing it. Her. This unravelling, breathless thing is happening between them… against Petrov.
His eyes flicked back to Silas. “How many men?”
“A full detail. Six. He says it’s a social call.” Silas’s tone made it clear how likely he believed that was.
Dante’s jaw tightened. His hand still splayed across her stomach, where he held her behind him, flexed. His thumb stroked her skin once, a final, fleeting caress that felt like a goodbye.
He released her, so suddenly she stumbled back a step, the cool air hitting her exposed skin like a shock. He didn’t look at her again. He straightened his suit jacket, a king preparing for battle.
“Get her dressed,” he ordered Silas, his voice devoid of all emotion. “Then bring her down.”
Silas’s eyes widened a fraction, the only sign of his surprise. “Sir? Is that… advisable?”
Dante finally turned, his gaze sweeping over Arabella’s half-dressed, dishevelled state. A ghost of that earlier hunger flickered in his eyes, quickly extinguished by a wall of impenetrable ice.
“Yes,” Dante said, the single word leaving no room for argument. “I want him to see what he can never have.”
Silas’s hand was a firm but not ungentle pressure on her lower back, guiding her toward the door. The command in Dante’s voice still hung in the air, a chilling ultimatum. I want him to see what he can never have. The words were a brand, marking her as a possession, a trophy to be flaunted. Every cell in her body rebelled. She was not a thing to be displayed.
The penthouse elevator was a cage of polished brass and gleaming mirrors. Silas stood beside her, a silent, mountainous sentinel, his gaze fixed ahead. Arabella’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of indignation and fear. She could feel the ghost of Dante’s kiss on her lips, the memory of his weight on the bed, the terrifying thrill of his dominance. It was a confusing, maddening cocktail of emotions.
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