Chapter Eight

Adele

Dante crushes me against the car, his mouth devouring mine with a desperation that matches mine. The kiss is savage and electric, sending lightning bolts straight to my core.

His hands tangle in my hair as he tilts my head back to deepen the kiss, and I moan, arching into him.

It's been so long, too long, and pent-up desire explodes between us.

His tongue traces the contour of my lower lip, demanding entry, and I open for him with a whispered curse. And then he invades my mouth, exploring every inch of me like he's been starved for a decade. And maybe he has. Maybe I have too. The years apart melt away as our bodies collide in a frenzy.

His scent—musk and sandalwood—teases me, and I lose my breath, trying to suck in more of it. My fingers clutch at his shoulders, digging into the fabric of his jacket. I can feel the hard planes of his body, the restrained strength beneath the surface, and it sends another thrill through me.

Dante's hands roam, skimming over my hips, my thighs, pulling me tight against him. I whimper as he grinds his arousal into my soft belly. Then he pulls back, his eyes dark with desire and growls low in his throat. "Fuck, I missed the way you taste."

My response is a breathless laugh. "Did you really?"

He only licks his lips, and then his mouth claims mine again. This time, the kiss is deeper, wilder. Our teeth click together, our tongues falling back to our old rhythm, only it's harder and more urgent.

His cock twitches against my lower belly, and I know I'd die if I don't feel that solid length inside me again. He groans into my mouth as his hands grip my hips, and then he starts to slowly grind me against his cock.

Goosebumps cover my skin. I love it when Dante does that with my hips—uses me for his pleasure. Still driving me insane with his mouth, his hand slips beneath the hem of my skirt, then goes straight for the jagged scar on my right hip and starts to stroke it in slow, perfect arcs.

"Jesus. Dante. Please." I sigh against his mouth.

He knows how sensitive I am over that knot of wrinkled skin and what would happen if he touched me like that. Dante is telling me he's not messing around.

He wants me now. Here.

Mindless with lust, I tug at his jacket. With a roll of his shoulders, he shrugs it off and then tosses it on the ground. Then his hand slides under my shirt, stroking my belly and waist, and I shiver at the feel of his calluses.

"How are you so fucking soft?" he murmurs, his lips nibbling a path along my jaw. I cling to him, my fingers digging into the rolling and bunching muscles of his wide shoulders and sinking into his thick silky hair.

Dante grabs the edge of my skirt and hikes it up, baring my thighs. A cool breeze teases my skin, sending more goosebumps across my flesh.

His fingers trail higher and higher until he's tracing the edge of my panties. The delicate lace does absolutely nothing to hide my arousal from him. I gasp as Dante traces the seam of my labia, catching the wetness that has gathered there.

"Do you want me to stop?" he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.

"Yes, jackass," I moan, my nails digging into his back as I spread my legs wider.

He chuckles wickedly against my skin as his thumb starts to rub my clit. I bite back a moan, my hips bucking involuntarily, and bury my face into the fragrant skin peeking between his partially open shirt, his necklace cool against my heated cheeks.

"I am so fucked," Dante murmurs, and suddenly, he snaps the crotch of my panties and slips a long thick finger inside me.

"Dante!" My brain short-circuits as my inner muscles clench tight around him in a way they never do for anyone else. It's as if my body remembers what to do. What it was taught to do.

Deep and fast, he thrusts his finger in time with the insistent beat of my heart as pleasure swirls inside me. I can feel my orgasm nearing, coiling tightly in my belly like a spring. My head falls back against the car window, and I claw at his back, urging him on as he finger-fucks me with reckless abandon. My hips buck against his hand, seeking more friction, more of him.

He adds a second finger, stretching me wider, and I start to hear myself above the hum of the jet engine nearby. Which means I'm getting outrageously loud, but I'm too wound up to care. I'm teetering on the edge of climax, waiting for that final nudge.

As if reading my mind, his fingers curl with just the right amount of pressure, hitting my G-spot repeatedly. My vision sparks bright, and I shatter.

White-hot pleasure rips through me, and my body convulses. I cry out his name as wave after wave of pleasure washes over me. Dante groans with me as if he acutely feels my pleasure. He continues to pump his fingers inside me, drawing out my orgasm until I'm trembling.

Even when my vision clears, his fingers remain inside me, his face buried in the crook of my neck. My nails are still digging into his back, my arms still gripping him just as tightly.

He's not ready to stop. Neither am I.

When he finally drags his fingers out of me, I whimper at the sudden loss. He raises his head and pins me with his scorching hot gaze. For a long minute, neither of us moves, and it feels like Dante is staring into my soul, sifting through every decadent thought.

Thoughts of wanting to touch him . . . taste him.

And then he proves he sees through me when he gruffly commands. "Do it."

My lids flutter closed as my cheeks flush. He's read me like a fucking book. With shaking hands, I obey, undoing his fly and zipper, then I reach for his thick cock. He jerks in my hand as I stroke him, triggering a wave of lust so intense I bite my lip.

He's so big that I'm no longer sure what I want more. His cum on my tongue or his girth stretching my pussy. Still, my mouth waters for a taste of him. My foggy mind begs me to make true one of its deepest fantasies.

I've never had Dante in my mouth before; there was only so much of each other that we managed to explore over the few nights in a three-month period, one of which I was a blushing virgin.

I run my thumb back and forth over his glans, catching a drop of precum. Immediately, I raise my hand to my mouth, but Dante stops me. He catches my wrist and instead suckles my wet thumb into his own mouth.

I gasp, shocked and aroused beyond words and more desperate than ever for him. Dante kisses me then, and shamelessly, I run my tongue along his, trying to discover the taste of his essence, but it's too faint.

I draw back, lust warring with irritation. "You're such a tease," I whisper.

He shrugs. "There's plenty more of it, Addy. You know what to do."

I don't even hesitate. I start to sink to my knees, but Dante shakes his head and slips a hand under my ass, hoisting me back up against him. "Wrap your legs around me."

My breath hitches at the command, and I do as he says, my skirt riding up to my waist. I feel exposed, vulnerable, the cool night air teasing my bare pussy. Dante's hands skim my hip, and I shiver.

Then I feel the broad head of his cock nudging at my entrance. In one smooth thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, filling me, stretching me too full. I bite my lip to stifle a moan, the sound emerging as a whimper.

Dante's hands tighten on my hips then he growls, his voice rough with restraint, "Are you okay?"

For a moment, I can't speak. My hips move of their own volition, struggling to accommodate his size. I forgot just how much Dante feels like. And then I nod. "Fuck me."

He swears, a string of Italian curses, then his hips pull back, withdrawing almost all the way out before slamming back into me. I scream as pleasure explodes in my pelvis.

The car shakes with the force of his thrusts, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the night air. I cry out with each thrust, my body a live wire of sensation. Dante's hands slide up my torso, palming my breasts through my bra, his thumbs teasing my nipples to tight peaks.

"Dante," I cry out. My head thumps against the car, but I hardly feel it. Dante sinks his fingers into the hair at my nape to steady me even as he pistons harder and faster into me.

"Oh God, Dante. Fuck!"

"You take me so good, Addy," he groans.

But even amid our frenzied passion, Dante remembers my hip. He supports my right hip with a big hand, massaging my scar with his thumb as he thrusts. The gentle pressure sends sparks radiating through my body, amplifying my pleasure in my core.

And then it becomes too much. My back arches clear off the car as my orgasm hits like an avalanche. "That's it, Addy," Dante growls. "Come on me."

I'm still shuddering with the force of my climax when his thrusts become jerky and less controlled. With a hoarse shout, he lifts my hips just so, changing the angle as he plants himself so deep that he drives me right onto that knife edge of pain-pleasure.

My breathing goes shallow. It's too much. "Fuck, Dante, please," I whimper, squirming, unable to stand the pleasurable ache blooming in my pelvis while my walls stretch to take the whole of him. He's never been this deep before; he never made me take his entire length before.

With a muffled shout against my neck, Dante starts to come, his release scalding hot. I moan, twitching and helplessly milking his cock as he spills himself inside me.

When our breathing slows. Dante raises his head, peppering my neck and shoulders with tender kisses. We remain in that position for long moments until, slowly, he pulls out of me and sets me on trembling legs. I whimper both at the pulsing emptiness between my thighs and the satisfying feel of his cum sliding out of me.

Once I'm steady on my feet, Dante drags me against his chest, his arms banding tight around my back and waist. His lips stroke back and forth over my temple, not quite kissing, just . . . letting me feel him. Smell him. Hear his heart pound hard against me.

How does this hug feel even more intimate than everything else we've just done?

"Christ, Addy," Dante curses, his voice rough. "You're lethal, you know that?"

Dante holds me until the fog of lust lifts. Then, one by one, the brain cells that sparked out the moment I laid eyes on Dante start to spring back to life and process what just happened.

I fucked Dante. A hardened criminal. The same criminal who's sabotaging our case.

I wait for the panic to set in, but it doesn't. Instead, I become increasingly aware of how much my skin tingles for. . . him.

"Addy," he whispers, leaning back. "Look at me."

My heart lurches when I finally muster the courage to meet his gaze. His eyes are ablaze with a raw, primal need that sends goosebumps on my skin. I know that look all too well; Dante wants more.

He's going to ask to take me home. And I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't turn into a giant stupid clit and say yes.

Mustering every ounce of willpower, I shake my head and say, "I should go."

Without a word, Dante steps back and starts adjusting my clothes. Then he takes a few more steps back, presumably to give me space.

The silence between us stretches, and neither says anything to break it. I turn to leave, feeling the weight of his gaze as I slowly walk back to the jet, cursing my kitten heels, which, right now, may as well be twelve-inch stilts for how steady I feel.

I grit my teeth, forcing my trembling legs into an even gait. It's silly that I'd happily let Dante pull up my skirt and fuck me right in the open, yet my face flames with embarrassment at the thought of him watching me limp.

As I reach the waiting plane, Dante calls out. "Adele," his voice carries across the distance between us.

I stop.

"Don't ever come back."

His words cut through me like a knife. He's right, of course. I should never return to this world, to him. But hearing him say it out loud hurts more than I expected.

"I'll still need to return for the sample." The words feel strange on my tongue, knowing he was the one who foiled this attempt to collect it.

"There's nothing to return for. Jim Pearson will find out soon enough that the sample is gone." His voice is steady, unwavering.

I whirl and stare at him in disbelief, my eyes widening. "What do you mean, it's gone?"

He shrugs, his expression unreadable, a mask of indifference. "It's been taken care of. Destroyed."

I don't know whether to marvel at his audacity or be disgusted by his blatant disregard for the law. I eye him again as if seeing him for the first time. His tall frame, broad shoulders, and arms thick with muscles honed from years of doing God knows what in the name of the Outfit.

His glossy hair is disheveled, long strands grazing his chiseled jaw and neck. I must have yanked off his hair tie in my frenzy, lost in passion. If I didn't have the sticky evidence running down my legs, I wouldn't believe that this cold, detached criminal was just inside me, taking me to heights of pleasure I forgot existed.

And now, he stands there, calmly telling me that the evidence, the very reason I came to Chicago, is gone. Destroyed. As if it meant nothing.

"I see," I respond. As I study him, I am hit by just how different our worlds are.

He operates by a code of his own, one that's written in blood and whispered in shadows. It's a world where the rules that bind the rest of us are just suggestions, and I can't help but feel a twinge of envy.

I wonder what it might be like to live like so, to be unburdened by the constraints that hold down the rest of society.

Without another word, I shake off the traitorous thoughts and take the steps up the obsidian jet. The footman who had been present earlier is now conspicuously absent.

As I ascend the steps and step into the cabin, the extravagance sparks a sense of deja vu—the buttery leather seats, gleaming wood panels, and sparkling chrome accents all exude an air of indulgent luxury that reminds me of that day Dante showed me his true self.

Only after I've settled into my seat do the crew emerge from behind the closed doors. Suddenly I understand the reason for their brief absence and a fresh wave of heat suffuses my cheeks.

Yet the crew maintain an air of utmost professionalism, greeting me warmly and offering refreshments and a steaming towel. I can't help but wonder if this is a common scene for them—Dante bringing various women aboard and ravishing them in plain sight.

As the jet takes off, I pull out my phone and see that I have missed eight more calls from Dad. I ignore them all, not wanting to deal with his incessant questions and demands, especially considering what I've been doing. I switch off my phone.

All I can feel is the ache and slickness between my thighs, the smell of Dante's skin, his taste, the blood from his temple smeared over the side of my face. I'd forgotten just how addictive he is.

From that first moment he approached me at the LBU gym, I'd been hooked on him. His confidence, his looks, and his raw sexual energy had drawn me in like a moth, and oh how sweet the burn was. Still is.

I shake off those thoughts and instead try to focus on how to break the bad news to Doug tomorrow. But it's no use. My mind keeps drifting back to Dante, to the way he'd touched me, the way he'd made me feel. I clench my thighs together, trying to quell the desire that still courses through me.

Kira might be onto something with these damn Italian men from Chicago.

As the jet soars through the clouds, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, telling my still painfully thumping heart it'll be okay.

That I just need to get back to Boston and forget about Dante.

That I'll never ever see him again.

But as I drift off to sleep, I can't drown out the voice that tells me I'll be back.

And soon.