Dante is barely moving. His cock slides in and out only an inch. The head rubs against that spot, teasing it.

I’m getting wetter and wetter. That helps his cock to slide. I don’t know if the wetness is blood or just lubrication. I don’t care. It allows Dante to pull his cock in and out a little more, so I can rock my hips against him, and he can flex the huge slabs of muscle on his back and ass, driving into me even deeper.

Our mouths are locked together. I’m clinging to him. I’ve never been entwined with another person like this.

We’re hot from dancing. Hot with emotion and desire. He’s sweating a little. It makes him smell intensely good. I stop kissing him for a second so I can lick the side of his neck, tasting salt and his own personal scent.

I grip the lobe of his ear between my teeth and I bite down. Dante growls, turning his head to suck on the side of my neck.

I’ve never seen a man like Dante. Never felt this raw strength and power.

Some primal part of my brain tells me that I NEED him. I need him inside me, even deeper than this.

“Harder,” I moan in his ear.

Dante buries his cock all the way inside of me. I feel his back flexing, his muscles working. It drives me insane with arousal.

“Harder,” I groan.

His thick arms are wrapped all the way around me. He’s squeezing me so tight that I’m afraid he’s going to crack my ribs, snap my spine. Still, I want more.

“Harder, Dante, please!”

With a beastly roar, he erupts inside of me. I feel pulse after pulse of that thing I was craving—that thick, hot fluid.

I’m cumming, too. I didn’t even know I was going to. But the psychological arousal of him cumming inside of me has pushed me over the edge. The orgasm comes from deep, deep inside—from that little sensitive spot that can feel the twitching of his cock, the fluid spurting out of him.

I’m squeezing and grinding and cumming just as he is, eyes closed, and my face buried in his neck.

Then it’s over, and he’s pulling out of me, warm liquid running down the inside of my thigh.

Without his cock filling that space, I feel empty and raw inside. I don’t dare look at the mess we made. I just pull down my skirt.

Dante is panting, not looking quite as wild now, but not quite sane again either.

He kisses me again, slowly and deeply this time.

“Are you alright?” he asks me.

“Yes,” I say, panting too.

“Did it hurt too much?”

“A little. Not too much.”

I kiss him, tasting the arousal in his breath. Each exhale is moist and warm, still faster than normal.

“I love you, Simone,” he says, his dark eyes boring into mine. “I know it’s only been a month—”

“I love you, too,” I tell him quickly. “I don’t care how long it’s been. This thing between us—”

“It’s not normal,” Dante says. “I love you like . . . like I’d destroy anything that tried to come between us. Like I’d burn the whole world down if I had to.”

His eyes keep hold of mine. I can’t look away. I don’t want to look away. I only want to nod.

“I know,” I say.

“I want you. Nothing else,” he says.

“You have me. All of me.”

“Promise me, Simone.”

“I’m yours. Till the day I die.”

He smiles and presses his heavy lips on mine.

“I want you longer than that,” he growls.

I was never raised to fall in love like this. Without reason or choice. Only wild, intense obsession.

I never meant for this to happen.

But now that it has, there’s no escaping.

I belong to Dante. And he belongs to me.

10

Dante

This summer has been the best of my life. I’m in love for the first time. The only time.

Simone is perfection in my eyes.

She’s a beautiful dreamer. I’ve never been able to see things like she can. She’s always pointing out the colors of things, the textures, the shapes.

“Look at those swirls running through those clouds over there—it reminds me of wood grain, don’t you think?”

“Look how the buildings are lit up from the side. The glass looks like gold.”

“Do you smell that? Those are damask roses. Some people think they smell like tea leaves . . .”

“Oh, feel this stone, Dante! If you closed your eyes, you’d think it was soap . . .”

We get more and more bold, going all over the city together, because I want to show Simone all my favorite places. She hasn’t been here as long as me.

I take her to Promontory Point, to the Botanic Gardens, to the Arts Corridor to see all the murals painted along the walls.

I even take her to an exhibit of 1930s and 40s Old Hollywood costumes. Simone loves that more than anything. She loses her mind over the green dress from Gone With the Wind, apparently sewn out of curtains—I never saw the film. I do recognize the ruby slippers from The Wizard of Oz—one of several pairs made for the movie, according to the little placard next to the display.

Watching her excitement over the clothes, I tell her, “You should accept the offer from Parsons. You should go there.”

Simone pauses next to a display of outerwear from Casablanca.

“What if I did?” she says, not looking at me. “What would happen with us?”

I’m standing right behind her, almost close enough to touch the curve of her hip. I see the edge of her face, her lashes laying against her cheek as she looks down at the floor.

“I could visit you,” I say. “Or I could come to New York . . . plenty of Italians in Manhattan. I’ve got cousins there, uncles . . .”

Simone turns around, face lit up.

“Would you?” she says.

“I’d rather go to New York than the fucking UK,” I say.

The truth is, I’d go anywhere to see Simone while she’s at school. But I know it’s Parsons she wants, not Cambridge.

“My parents are already annoyed at me that I delayed my acceptance,” she sighs. “I said I’d go for the winter semester . . .”

“It’s not their life,” I growl.

“I know. I’m the only one they’ve got, though. Serwa . . .”

“It’s not your responsibility to make up for all the things your sister can’t do.”

“She’s actually been doing much better lately,” Simone says happily. “She’s on a new medication. She’s been applying for jobs in London. At least we’ll be close by each other, if I do go to Cambridge . . .”

I haven’t met Serwa, or any of Simone’s family.

Simone thinks they won’t accept me.

She’s probably right. I know what I am. I look like a thug and have the manners of one. My father can be dignified when he wants to be. He can hobnob with politicians and CEOS. I never learned to do that. Papa turned over the uglier parts of our business to me, and that’s all I know.

I tell Simone that she doesn’t have to bend to her father’s demands.

But I have my own responsibilities to my family. What would they do if I went to New York? Nero isn’t old enough to handle things on his own. And there’s truth to what Edwin Dukuly said right before I killed him. Papa is still powerful. But he hasn’t had the same focus since Mama died. He tells me what needs doing. I’m the one that has to do it.