Page 96 of Dance With A Devil

The question catches me off guard. I nod before my brain can catch up.

His lips are warm. Sure. A little dangerous.

But when they press into mine, somethingignites. Not just heat, but something… darker.

I should pull away. I don’t.

He deepens the kiss, his fingers tangled in my hair now. I’m falling back against the pillows, my breath syncing with his, and suddenly he’s straddling my waist, claiming, teasing, testing.

We don’t speak. There’s no need.

Because in this kiss, in this moment, he’s not just kissing me. He’sbrandingme.

And maybe… Maybe I’m letting him.

“Wyck wasn’t lying,” Dash murmurs against my swollen lips, dragging the words over my mouth like a blade dressed in silk. “You taste like sin wrapped in sugar.”

A smirk curves my lips, but his next line slices through whatever air I had left. “I wonder if your other lips taste just as sweet.”

My breath catches.

He doesn’t mean…But he does.

He absolutely fucking does.

While my brain trips over itself, Dash moves with terrifying purpose. My joggers are already halfway down my hips, nowarning, no hesitation, justgone.He doesn’t even wait for my hips to lift. He rips them down and off like they offended him.

“Knew you weren’t wearing panties,” he growls, eyes flicking over me like he’s already claimed this body in ten different lifetimes. “You were made to be devoured.”

“Dash…” I whisper, part question, part surrender.

He looks up, smug and wicked. “What am I doing?” His smirk widens. “Having a light snack before breakfast.”

I drop onto my elbows as he lowers himself between my legs. He doesn’t dive in. No, Dash is too precise for that. Too cruel. He starts slow. Soft, almost reverent kisses line the insides of my thighs, heat building with each one.

Then,bite.

I jolt.

He grins against my skin, doesn’t apologize. He bites again. And again. Love bites, bruises I’ll wear like a goddamn offering.

“You’re squirming already,” he murmurs, voice dragging along my bones. “You want me filthy, don’t you?”

“Dash,” I breathe, wrecked already.

He doesn’t answer. He just moves up, lips brushing over my navel, tongue dipping, tasting. When he finally settles between my thighs again, my legs are already open, shaking for him.

And then, heinhales.

“I can smell you, Athens.”

Panic flutters.Do I stink? Did I-

I try to sit up, but his palm slams flat against my chest. Firm. Commanding. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“You said you could smell me,” I whisper, shame creeping in.

His eyes darken. “Yeah. And it’s driving me insane. You smell like heaven corrupted. Like you were made to ruin men.”