Page 120 of Dante

I smile and hold out my hand.

“Aren’t you going to take off your clothes too?” I ask, reaching for the buttons on his shirt.

“No questions,” he says, a mockery of his usual stern tone.

Dante is the boss.

He pins my arms above my head as he kisses me intensely.

He breaks the kiss every few seconds to trace his warm lips along the curve of my ear. He gives it a gentle nibble that sends my pulse racing before returning to my mouth with renewed hunger.

I return his delicious kisses, my lips parting to welcome the warm slide of his tongue against mine.

His hands, usually so demanding and quick, now move over my body with deliberate leisure. His rough fingertips trace the curve where my waist dips. His palms smooth over the soft swell of my hips.

Dante explores me slowly, as if committing every inch of me to memory. He lingers at the sensitive hollow beneath my ribs and the tender place where my neck meets my shoulder.

When his thumb grazes the underside of my breast, I arch into his touch, wanting more.

Dante’s breath catches audibly as he takes in the sight of me, his touch reverent in a way I’ve never felt from him before.

Tonight, I barely recognize Dante as my husband.

Of course, Dante always made sure I was satisfied.

But for me, pleasure was never the point.

What I always wanted from him was something deeper.

Something that belonged only to us.

Tonight it feels as if he finally understands.

I keep waiting for him to snap back into his usual commanding self. But he just keeps touching me with this gentleness I didn’t know he possessed.

“I want to put a baby in you,” he says, lightly tracing the taut skin of my flat stomach with his forefinger.

A baby.

The word settles between us, heavy with meaning.

We had never talked about it. I knew it was expected, given Dante’s position. But he had never spoken the words aloud.

I open my mouth to respond, but Dante presses his lips to mine before I can say a word.

That’s our dance.

Dante’s taut body presses against mine, his erection straining against the thin fabric of his shorts.

I feel his breathing grow heavier against my neck.

His hands move to the fly of his shorts, tugging it open with impatient fingers. The quiet slide of the zipper seems unnaturally loud in the room.

A rustle of fabric follows. And then the unmistakable heat of his bare erection presses against my skin.

He shifts slightly, positioning himself. Even though weeks have passed since he first claimed me, a familiar tension still ripples through my body.

“Relax,” he murmurs.