Page 39

He stayed.
No one ever stays. Not friend or foe. Not even Dad. When it came right down to it, he chose the weighty blankets of grief and pain and memories over his child.
I’m still trying to decide what that means when the shower door opens and Dante steps in, naked and predatory and utterly unapologetic. His charcoal-gray eyes drag down my body like he’s already deciding which part to mark again first.
Water beads on his skin, rolls down the taut planes of his abs, glistens around the thick, pierced cock already rising between us.
“Morning,” I say, voice sticky with sleep and sarcasm.
“On your knees, Specter.”
A flash of heat shoots between my legs but I narrow my eyes. “No coffee first?”
“You’ll earn it.”
Of course I will.
But I’m already kneeling, eager excitement the steam curling around me as he steps closer. My heart jackhammers. I should be used to this by now—his bluntness, the way he doesn’t ask. But there’s something about doing it here, under the bright heat of morning, that makes it feel realer.
Rawer.
More mine.
His fingers sink into my damp hair. Tighten. Reminding me of his ownership.
His other hand holds his engorged dick an inch from my salivating mouth. And we both still. Until he nods. Gifting permission.
I wrap my eager hand around the base of him, guiding him toward my lips. I lick slowly, from root to tip, tasting the clean salt of his skin.
The cool metallic tang of his barbells against my teeth. Weird. Wonderful. Absurd and addictive.
I lap lap lap. Moaning for more.
His breath hitches, the only crack in his titanium armor. “Eyes up,” he growls. “I want to watch you worship.”
I meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide. Hungry. Possessive.
I take him deeper and feel the weight of him on my tongue. My lips stretch around his girth, and I swear I hear him hiss through his teeth.
“Fuck… that mouth,” he rasps. “You’readdicting, Dahlia.”
The word slams into me harder than his cock ever could.
Addicting.
My gut flips. Something sharp and terrifying blooms in my chest. Because he didn’t mean to say that. His voice was too raw. Too honest.
And ithurts—the way my body thrills at it, sharp and deadly, like cutting yourself on the deadliest blade. The way it makes me feel seen and wanted and so stupidly fragile I almost choke.
So I cover it up the only way I know how.
I pull back and smirk, licking his tip like a lollipop. “You say that to all your criminal conquests, Daddy?”
He barks a laugh. “No,” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re the first thief who sucks cock like it’s revenge.”
I swirl my tongue around the head in answer, then take him deep enough to make his legs tense.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”