Liana pov
I wake to sunlight stabbing through the curtains, warm against my face. For a second, I almost forget where I am. Almost. Then the memories of last night come back, sharp as broken glass — his voice in the dark, his hands around my wrists, the way my pulse had tripped when he leaned in.
God, I hate him. God, I can't stop thinking about him. I sit up, raking my fingers through my hair, trying to shake him out of my head. It doesn't work. His scent still clings to me, faint and infuriating, like smoke after a fire.
Breakfast is waiting downstairs — eggs, fresh bread, coffee strong enough to wake the dead. I'm halfway through a bite when I hear his footsteps. They're heavier than anyone else's in the house, slow but certain, like he owns every inch of ground he walks on.
"Morning," he says, stepping into the dining room. He's wearing a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms tanned and corded with muscle. He pours himself coffee like he hasn't spent the last few days making my life hell.
I don't answer. My fork scrapes the plate. He takes the seat across from me. "You're quiet today."
"Maybe I have nothing to say to kidnappers," I reply, sweet as poison.
His mouth tilts — not quite a smile. "You talk like you hate me. You look at me like you don't."
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I hate myself for it. I focus on my plate, but my pulse is already betraying me.
The rest of breakfast was… quiet. Too quiet. Not the comfortable kind, either. I kept my eyes on the plate, forcing myself to chew even though every bite felt like chewing glass. Dante was sitting across from me, far too calm, sipping his coffee like we were some kind of happily married couple having a lazy morning together.
It made me want to throw the mug at his head. It also made me… something else. Something I didn't want to admit.
"Eat," he said without looking up. The command was simple, unyielding, like everything about him.
I stabbed the fork into the eggs, mostly so I wouldn't stab it into him. "Maybe I'm not hungry."
His gaze lifted, grey eyes locking on me like they could pin me to the chair. "Then maybe you need… an appetite."
There was a weight in the air now. Not just the tension — though that was thick enough to choke me, but something hotter, darker. Before I could think of a sharp reply, he stood, the scrape of his chair against the floor making my pulse jump. I stayed still when he walked around the table, because moving would mean acknowledging that my legs were shaking.
His hand closed around my wrist, warm and strong, and I hated the way my skin reacted — a shiver, a quickening in my chest.
"You've been staring at me all morning," he murmured, his voice brushing over my skin like a touch. "Maybe it's time we deal with that."
"I haven't—" I started, but my voice betrayed me, cracking in the middle.
He didn't drag me, but I still followed as he led me away from the dining room, down the hall, up the stairs. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.
When we stepped into his bedroom, the air changed. Heavy curtains dimmed the light, making everything feel closer, hotter. The scent of him — smoke, leather, and something warm I couldn't name — wrapped around me.
He let go of my wrist but didn't step back. "Last chance, Liana," he said, his eyes never leaving mine. "If you want me to stop, you say it now."
I should have said it. I should have screamed it. Instead, I stayed quiet. That was all the permission he needed.
His hand came up to my jaw, tilting my face up until I had no choice but to meet those storm-grey eyes. The silence between us was a wire pulled taut — all it would take was one wrong move to snap it. Then his mouth was on mine. Not soft. Not gentle.
Hungry. Demanding. Possessive.
The first brush of his lips sent a jolt through me, my fingers curling into his shirt without my permission. I hated myself for it — hated the way my body was already betraying me. I kissed him back. God help me, I kissed him back.
His hand slid into my hair, tightening just enough to hold me still as his tongue swept into my mouth, tasting, claiming. His other hand found my waist, pulling me flush against the hard, unyielding length of his body.
I could feel him. Every inch of him. My breath hitched when he pulled away, only to press his mouth to my jaw, then my throat. His stubble scraped against my skin in a way that made me shiver.
"Say it," he murmured against my neck, his voice low and lethal. "Say you don't want this, and I'll stop."
I couldn't. So I stayed silent. He smiled against my skin like he knew it was victory. His hands were already at the hem of my top, sliding it upward, slow enough to make me burn. I lifted my arms because fighting felt pointless and because I wanted to feel his hands on me.
When the shirt was gone, his gaze dropped to the lace covering my breasts. "Pretty," he said, almost to himself, before his mouth closed over one peak, wet heat searing through the thin fabric.
A gasp tore from my throat, my fingers tangling in his hair before I could think to stop them. He took his time, kissing, biting lightly, licking until my knees trembled. By the time he stripped me of my jeans, I was already aching and I hated him for it.
He stepped back just long enough to unbutton his shirt, shrugging it off his broad shoulders. My mouth went dry at the sight of the tattoos inked into the hard planes of his chest and arms. Then his belt was unbuckled, his pants sliding down — and the heavy, thick outline straining against his briefs made my pulse trip.
I didn't have time to think about it before he backed me toward the bed. I fell onto the mattress, my hair spilling over the sheets. Dante climbed over me, caging me in, his gaze fixed on my face.
"We're going to take our time," he whispered, his voice promising sin. "And you're going to feel every second of it."
He kissed me again, slower now, while his hands roamed lower. When his fingers found the edge of my panties, he didn't pull them off right away — he traced over the damp heat instead, making me squirm. Then, in one smooth motion, he shifted us, rolling until I was straddling his chest, my thighs bracketing his head.
It took me a second to realize what he was doing.
My cheeks burned. "Dante—"
"Shh," he said, his hands gripping my hips. "I want to taste you while I watch you take me in your mouth."
And then his mouth was on me, hot and hungry, his tongue parting me before I could argue. The shock of it tore a gasp from my lips. My hands braced on his stomach, trembling as the first wave of pleasure rolled through me.
I lowered myself over him, hesitant at first, until my mouth was hovering over the thick, flushed head of his cock. He was already leaking, the taste of salt and heat on my tongue when I took the first slow lick.
Below me, he groaned into me, the vibration making my thighs clench. I sank down on him, inch by inch, until my lips brushed the base. He rewarded me with a firm suck against my clit, his fingers joining his tongue to tease me in tight, devastating circles.
I moaned around him — and that was all it took for him to push deeper into my mouth. He set a rhythm, his hips lifting in sync with the thrust of his fingers inside me. The combination was dizzying, unbearable, and yet I didn't want it to stop.
The more I sucked him, the rougher he got with me — his tongue relentless, his fingers curling in a way that made me see stars. My nails dug into his thighs for balance, my body on the edge of something explosive.
"Cum for me," he growled against me, his voice low and wicked.
The command tipped me over. I cried out against his length, my orgasm ripping through me in shuddering waves. He didn't stop, didn't slow — just kept pushing until I was a mess above him.
Then he pulled me off him, flipped me onto my hands and knees, and without warning, drove into me from behind. I gasped at the stretch — the sheer size of him filling me, forcing me open. He gave me no time to adjust, his hands gripping my hips, pounding into me with deep, relentless thrusts.
Every time he bottomed out, I felt it in my stomach, pleasure and pain twisting together. My moans were ragged, my body strung tight.
He leaned over me, one hand tangling in my hair, pulling me upright so my back was against his chest. "You feel that?" he whispered, his lips brushing my ear. "You're mine."
When he finally pushed me down and rolled me onto my back, it was to take me in missionary, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his eyes locked on mine. Each thrust was slow now, deliberate, as if he was memorizing me from the inside out.
I came again, clenching around him, dragging him over the edge with me. He groaned, his release hot and heavy, filling me until I could feel it spilling down my thighs. His weight left me, and for a moment I thought it was over. My chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, my body trembling from the aftershocks.
I stared at the ceiling, trying to pull myself back into myself. My skin was damp, my hair a mess, my lips swollen from his kisses. I wanted to hate him more than I wanted to breathe… but I could still feel him inside me, the ghost of his size and heat, and it made my thighs press together.
Then the mattress dipped again. I turned my head just in time to see him kneeling between my legs, his cock still hard — harder, somehow, than before, flushed and glistening.
"Dante—" My voice cracked, half-warning, half-plea.
"You think I'm done?" His tone was low, dangerous. "I'm not even close."
He gripped my hips and yanked me to the edge of the bed, my legs falling open whether I wanted them to or not. The suddenness stole my breath. And then he was inside me again.
No slow build this time — he slammed into me, deep and brutal, the sound of our bodies meeting echoing in the room. I cried out, my hands fisting in the sheets, my spine arching from the force of him.
Every thrust drove the air from my lungs, the thick, heavy drag of him hitting that spot inside me that made my vision blur. He wasn't holding back now. This was pure, punishing possession — the kind that left no room for thought, only sensation.
His hands pinned my wrists above my head, his grip iron-tight, as he pounded into me with unrelenting rhythm. The bedframe rattled, the sheets twisted under us, my cries spilling unchecked from my lips.
"You'll remember this," he growled, his mouth at my ear, his pace somehow getting faster. "Every time you try to hate me, you'll remember exactly how I fuck you."
I wanted to deny him that power, to hold on to my anger — but the pleasure was a tidal wave, swallowing me whole. My nails bit into my palms as another climax built, sharp and unbearable.
When it broke, it was violent — my entire body clenching around him, pulling him deeper, dragging a curse from his lips. He drove into me harder, faster, chasing his own release until he spilled inside me again, the heat flooding me in thick pulses.
He stayed buried in me for a long moment, his breathing harsh, his body heavy over mine. I lay there beneath him, dazed, my pulse in my ears… knowing I was already in far more danger than I'd ever admitted.
He finally pulled out, the absence almost as shocking as the intrusion had been, leaving me aching, raw, and far too aware of every place he had touched. My legs felt heavy, useless. Dante didn't speak, just tossed the sheet over me and stood, his broad back cutting an intimidating silhouette in the dim light as he reached for his shirt.
I turned my face toward the pillow, willing my breathing to slow, to stop sounding like I'd just begged for more when all I should feel was disgust. But my lips still tingled from his kisses. My skin still burned from where his hands had gripped me and somewhere low in my stomach, that molten, shameful ache still pulsed.
I hated it. I hated him and I hated myself most of all. He glanced over his shoulder, grey eyes locking on me like a tether.
"Get dressed," he said, his voice quiet but leaving no room for disobedience. "We're leaving soon."
Leaving. Like nothing had just happened. Like he hadn't just broken me open and poured himself inside. I sat up slowly, wrapping the sheet tighter around me, forcing my chin up so he couldn't see how shaken I was. "Don't think for a second this means I'll forgive you," I said, my voice sharper than I felt.
A ghost of a smirk curved his lips, as if my defiance only amused him. "I don't want your forgiveness, Liana." He stepped closer, his hand brushing my jaw with the same fingers that had been inside me minutes ago. "I just want you."
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the scent of him in the air and the maddening truth settling over me — that no matter how much I swore to hate him, my body had already betrayed me.