The fever Dream
The outside world died the moment Dante locked the door to his penthouse. Time became irrelevant. There was no day or night, only the cycle of our breath, the friction of our skin, and the desperate, hungry silence of a sanctuary built on a lie. Dante was a man possessed. It was as if by surrendering to his guilt, he had unlocked a darker, deeper layer of his need for me. He didn't just want me; he wanted to consume me. I woke up on Sunday morning to the sensation of his mouth on the arch of my foot. He moved upward with agonizing slowness, his tongue tracing the line of my calf, the back of my knee, and the soft skin of my inner thigh. I groaned, my fingers tangling in the silk pillows as the familiar heat coiled in my gut. "You're mine, Elena," he whispered against my skin, his voice
- Writer
