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She twisted her face away with a sharp breath, trying to break free from the overwhelming onslaught. But he followed the curve of her jaw, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her skin. His stubble scraped her as he trailed downward, biting and sucking at the delicate line of her throat.
Her skin burned under the assault—each kiss a searing mark, each lick a brand of possession.
Her hands flew up to push him away, but he caught them midair—his grip iron-strong. Before she could twist out of his grasp, he forced her wrists above her head. Her back arched instinctively, shocked by the sudden shift.
In one swift motion, he grabbed the knit throw draped at the edge of the bed and looped it around her wrists, knotting it securely to the headboard. The fabric was soft, but the intent was anything but.
Chapter 25 Desperate
She gasped, eyes wide, her breath hitching in her throat. A wave of disbelief washed over her, chased by fury and a sharp pulse of fear. Her heart thundered against her ribs as she tested the binding, the soft fibers refusing to give.
“Dante, stop. You and I—we’re not together anymore,” she hissed, her voice low and ragged.
But he didn’t stop.
His lips moved along the slope of her collarbone, lingering, scraping lightly with his teeth before soothing the sting with the wet heat of his tongue.
Then he moved lower.
His breath fanned against her chest just seconds before his mouth latched onto her breast. He sucked her nipple into his mouth with force, groaning low in his throat as if the taste of her was a relief he’d been denied too long. The sound vibrated against her skin, sending sharp pulses straight to her core.
She gasped, her bound wrists straining against the throw, her body arching despite itself.
His hand slid to her waist, fingers spread wide, anchoring her in place as she twisted, her hips shifting involuntarily beneath him. His grip only tightened, possessive and firm, his body pressing her deeper into the mattress as if trying to mold her into it. Into him.
Her breath hitched violently in her throat, chest rising and falling in uneven waves as heat surged through her. Her head fell back against the pillows, strands of hair clinging to damp skin. Her mouth opened in a silent cry, her body trembling under his touch—overwhelmed, consumed.
His mouth continued downward, trailing a path between her breasts, over the sensitive lines of her ribs, then lower, his tongue carving a wicked path over her soft skin.
“Ahh…” She writhed beneath him, her voice caught somewhere between a moan and a gasp. He moved with the hunger of a man possessed, dragging his mouth along her trembling form like he was memorizing her with his tongue.
She tried to twist away—reflexive, breathless—but he only moved faster, deeper, holding her rightly.
Then, suddenly he slowed.
The frenzied urgency in his movements vanished. His breathing was heavy, uneven, but his touch softened.
He lifted his head, his face hovering close to hers, their noses nearly brushing. The heat of his breath ghosted over her lips. His hand rose, fingertips trembling slightly as they cradled her cheek. His thumb grazed her skin in the lightest stroke.
“I was wrong,” he whispered, his voice ragged, barely more than air. “Please… forgive me.”
His eyes locked onto hers, no longer wild, no longer demanding. They were full of something else now. Desperate sincerity. Regret. A love so worn and broken, it looked fragile in his gaze.
But Anya turned her head.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice dry and distant, like a wall thrown up between them.
Dante’s fingers trembled where they held her. His jaw clenched, the muscles tightening as he swallowed hard—like choking on something bitter. His breath faltered as a deep ache clawed at his chest, too sharp to ignore.
Then, without a word, he leaned forward.
Slowly.
His movements stripped of fire, heavy with something else—defeat, maybe. Regret. He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, hiding there like a man trying to escape the wreckage he’d caused. His lips brushed her skin, trembling against her pulse. Just a whisper of warmth. Just enough to make her chest catch.
Then he moved, dragging his mouth along her throat in a shaky, broken line. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t dominance. It was grief disguised as touch. A man trying to hold on to something slipping through his fingers.
Anya’s breath faltered.