Page 2 of The Dante (Those (Damn!) Texas Dantes #1)

JAZZ STOOD in the center of the bedroom, her fingers twisting together as she fought to steady her breath. The fire in the hearth flickered, throwing golden light across the silk sheets of the massive bed—the bed she was supposed to share with her husband tonight.

Her husband.

Titus Dante.

A man she barely knew, yet one she’d agreed to marry. Not for love. Not even for companionship. But because of money.

Her stomach clenched, amix of unease and something far more dangerous—something she refused to name.

Was it fear? Desire? Adesperate yearning for something she couldn’t define?

It twisted inside her, tight and relentless, making it impossible to take a full breath.

He hadn’t touched her since the day he convinced her to accept his proposal, since the one kiss that had left her shaken, breathless, and wholly unprepared for the reality of what lay ahead.

He hadn’t kissed her since. Well, other than at the altar.

He hadn’t even tried.

And that terrified her more than if hehad.

She rubbed her palm absently, her fingers brushing over the strange little mark that had appeared a few days ago.

No matter how much she scrubbed, it remained, afaint smudge that almost seemed to shift when she wasn’t looking.

She told herself it was stress, that her mind was playing tricks on her.

There were bigger things to worry about tonight.

Like the fact that she was a virgin.

And her husband was about to claimher.

The door creaked open, and she stiffened, pulse hammering against her ribs. Then he stepped inside.

Titus was dominance incarnate, aman whose very presence demanded attention.

Power clung to him, effortless and absolute, asilent force that made the air between them crackle with tension.

His presence filled the room, commanding, unwavering, unshakable.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of lean strength that spoke of authority and domination.

His black dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, revealed a hint of bronzed skin, and the way the fabric clung to his frame only emphasized the raw masculinity beneath.

The sleeves were rolled to his forearms, exposing strong wrists and hands that exuded a quiet, lethal promise.

His face was the kind that belonged to a man who decided his own fate—elegantly handsome, with chiseled features that looked sculpted from stone.

Astrong jaw, high cheekbones, and a mouth that could be both cruel and devastatingly sensual.

But it was his eyes that held her captive.

Dark, dark eyes—so black they nearly swallowed the light—assessing, dissecting, seeing through every single one of her defenses.

They revealed nothing. No warmth. No softness.

Only unreadable depth and a promise of something dangerous.

His voice was just as potent. Deep, smooth, rich—like aged whiskey poured over rough velvet.

It wasn’t just a sound; it was a sensation, one that burrowed through her, sinking deep into her bones.

He spoke in measured tones, never raising his voice, because he never needed to.

Titus Dante, who everyone referred to as “The Dante” was a man in charge, aman who made the world bend to his will without ever having to demandit.

Everything about him was precise. The way he stood, relaxed yet unyielding.

The way he moved, slow and deliberate, like a predator that knew there was no need to rush.

And yet, beneath all that exquisite restraint, there was something caged, something ruthless, something that made every inch of her body prickle with awareness.

“I need to put on my nightgown.” She reached for the delicate straps of her gown, prepared to shed her wedding dress, but his voice stoppedher.

“Don’t bother,” Titus said smoothly, his dark eyes gleaming with intent. “You won’t need it.”

Her breath caught, fingers tightening around the silk.

Heat burned through her veins—not just from his words but from the way he looked at her.

Slowly, methodically, his gaze moved over her, taking in every inch of the gown she wore.

Layers of ivory and lace, fitted to her body in a way that had made her feel like a bride, despite knowing this wasn’t a real marriage.

Now, standing before him in their bedroom, she felt ensnared by something far stronger than silk and lace—something binding, unbreakable.

This wasn’t just a wedding gown—it was a contract, asymbol of everything she had agreed to, everything she had given up.

It felt as if the fabric itself carried weight, pressing against her skin like invisible chains, reminding her that there was no turningback.

He stepped forward, and without breaking eye contact, reached around her for the first tiny button at the nape of her neck.

The soft brush of his knuckles against her skin sent a shiver cascading through her.

She should protest. She should say something.

Anything. But the slow, deliberate way he unfastened each button left hermute.

“You looked beautiful today,” he murmured, his voice like a slow, rolling storm, deep and charged with something dark and undeniable. “Every man in that room wanted you. Every single one of them wondered what it would be like to be in my place tonight.”

Her pulse stuttered. “And you?”

His fingers grazed down the length of her spine, parting the fabric ever so slightly. “I don’t wonder, Jazz. Iknow.”

Her stomach flipped, her body reacting in a way she couldn’t prevent. The bodice of her dress loosened, and his hands skimmed her bare shoulders, pushing the delicate lace downward, inch by excruciatinginch.

“What did you think of the wedding?” he asked, his voice deceptively casual as he slid one sleeve from her arm, then the other.

Jazz swallowed hard, struggling to keep her thoughts coherent as her gown pooled at her waist. “I—what?”

“The wedding,” he repeated. “What did you think?”

She swallowed, her mind scrambling. What did he expect her to say?

That it was beautiful? That the luxurious floral arrangements and the towering cake had made up for the fact that she had walked down the aisle toward a man who barely touched her?

That she had smiled for the cameras, knowing every moment was a carefully orchestrated performance?

She shivered as his knuckles grazed the exposed skin of her back. “It was… grand.”

A slow smile curved his lips. “You didn’ t like it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Senator Alistair Vex seemed to enjoy himself,” Titus murmured, his tone neutral, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent beneath his words. “He made it a point to personally congratulate me on my choice of bride. Said he was looking forward to doing business with us.”

Jazz stiffened slightly, her mind flashing back to the older man with the pale blue eyes and the kind of smile that never quite reached them. Alistair Vex had been watching them closely all evening, his presence lingering at the edges of every conversation that mattered.

“He makes me uneasy,” she admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “The way he looked at me—like he was assessing something. Calculating.”

Titus’s fingers traced absent patterns along her collarbone. “That’s exactly what he was doing. Alistair Vex doesn’t waste time on anything that doesn’t serve his interests. And right now, we do.”

“We don’t have to, do we?” Heat crawled into her belly, adeep, insidious burn that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do withhim.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate, and had nothing to do with Vex. “Are you afraid of me, Jazz?”

She swallowed, willing herself to meet his gaze. “No.”

A slow, knowing smile. “Liar.”

She inhaled sharply. “You’ve only kissed me twice. Once that night—”

“And earlier today at the altar.”

“Yes.”

He held her firmly, his grip unyielding yet not cruel.

His touch branded her, possessive and inescapable, sending heat smoldering low in her belly.

She should pull away. She should fight against the way her body responded to him.

But she didn’t. The heat of his body seeped into hers, aslow burn that tightened something low in her stomach.

His hold was effortless, possessive, and utterly inescapable.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to flee or melt intohim.

His dark gaze bore into her, searching, testing. Then, with deliberate ease, his fingers slid lower, tracing the curve of her back through the remaining fabric of her dress. His touch was light, teasing, as if he had all the time in the world.

“You think I don’t want you?” His words were a murmur against her skin, the heat of his breath teasing her senses. “You think I’m not desperate to taste you again?”

When he stopped just shy of touching her, her breath hitched, her body already betraying her. He reached out, trailing one calloused finger along the curve of her throat, dipping to the hollow where her pulse pounded wildly.

Her knees wobbled. “I don’t know what to think.”

He laughed softly, the sound rich with amusement. “Then let me make it clear.”

And then he kissedher.

It was nothing like their first. That kiss had been an agreement, asealing of a deal.

This was a possession. Aslow, devastating claim that unraveled her piece by piece.

His lips moved against hers with deliberate precision, coaxing, demanding, until she parted for him, her body arching into his as his tongue swept inside.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was a claiming, an overwhelming possession that left her breathless. Heat flared, consuming, and she melted into him, lost in the sensation of being wanted so completely.