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“Come.”
He leads me toward one of the gallery’s private side alcoves. Less flashy. No cameras.
I follow. Not because I have to. Because I need to see what this version of this riled Dante wants.
Halfway down the hallway, he presses me up against the cool concrete wall. My dress hikes with no preamble. Thighs gripped and splayed. His cock is already out, thick and hard, no warm-up or dirty talk.
Just a push.
A thrust.
A claim.
The best delicious stretch in the world.
My breath hitches, but the fire burns. “This is what we’re doing, is it? Reclaiming your control, Sir?”
Thrust. Still. “Shut the fuck up, little thief.”
I gasp—but not because of the force or the insult. Because of the emptiness in his eyes.
“Dant—”
His fingers close around my throat. Eyes a dark vortex.
He fucks me efficiently. Deep and hard and precise. His breathing remains steady, controlled. Too controlled.
It’s clinical. Like I’m part of a ritual, not a woman.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, grip tight, digging nails into muscle—but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.
This isn’t sex. This is distraction.
For him. And maybe for me, too.
He comes with a low grunt, not even kissing me. I clench around him anyway out of sheer need, but my orgasm detonates all the same, unravels me, even while it chases something that isn’t here anymore.
When he pulls out, I feel colder than the wall.
He adjusts himself. Straightens my dress. Kisses my temple like a caretaker, not a Dom.
“We should get back,” he murmurs.
I nod.
But the silence stretches between us like something shattered and swept under a rug.
And for the first time, I don’t want to go back to the penthouse.
I want to know what the hell he’s hiding.
CHAPTER 13
Dahlia
The silence in the car is the kind that hisses.
Dante drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting carelessly on my thigh like nothing’s changed. Like he didn’t just use my body as a pressure valve and walk away before the emotional steam had cleared.