Page 44 of Dante

“When someone threatens you, you don’t hesitate. You don’t freeze. You aim, and you pull the trigger.”

His hand slides from the gun to my wrist. “Say it again.”

“I aim and pull the trigger.”

“Good girl.”

The words send a quiver down my spine.

Dante’s hand glides to the damp knot of the robe at my waist. He unties it, sliding his palm across my naked belly. I let the fabric part.

“Now you have the magic tool,” he says, turning me to face him. “And you know how to use it.”

The Beretta dangles between us.

Dante presses closer, the rough fabric of his expensive jacket against my exposed nipples. To my surprise, I thrust my hips closer to his.

“Good girl,” he says. With his right hand, he uses the Beretta like fingers, its cold muzzle brushing along the curve of my hip. Then I feel it slide to my breast.

I gasp as the hard ring of the barrel circles my nipple. Dante’s other hand fists my hair and tugs my head back, forcing me to turn and meet his eyes in the mirror.

“Do you see yourself, California Girl?”

I nod, my pulse thrumming.

The Beretta circles my nipple again, slower this time. He drags the muzzle down my skin, past my ribs, pressing it into my belly.

Dante watches me in the mirror, his expression dark with lust.

“Spread your legs,” Dante orders. I do as I’m told.

“Now strip.”

I shimmy my shoulders, and the robe pools at my feet.

Dante’s hand finds the small of my back, guiding me forward until my hips touch the mirrored wall.

To my right, I see the city below through the window. I catch sight of myself nude, Dante positioning himself behind me.

He presses his body to mine, pinning me in place.

With my legs still spread, the gun strokes the inside of my thigh. I brace myself against the mirrored wall, dwarfed by Dante’s height.

The gun edges higher, nudging between my legs.

I whimper for more, jutting my hips backward to meet his firm erection covered by silk trousers.

Dante hushes me with a growl. “You’re going to remember this moment every time you look at your own reflection, aren’t you?”

The Beretta nudges higher, cold against the fever-heat of my skin.

He uses the gun to trace a line between my legs, the length of it slipping through my slick folds.

I gasp as the metal brushes my clit, and Dante laughs—a hoarse, hungry sound.

Then he twists me slightly, forcing me to grasp the glass windowpane for support.

I imagine how we must look from outside, with me naked and pressed against the window for the whole city to see.