I pick her up and throw her down on her bed. The bed is childish and feminine—covered by a pale pink canopy and stuffed with frilled pillows. I shove all that out of the way to make room for her slim body and my massive frame. The springs creak under my weight as I climb on top of her.

“Wait!” Simone gasps. “Tell me your name this time.”

“Dante,” I say.

“Is that your real name?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not lying?”

I look into her eyes, deep amber in this light. “I’ll never lie to you,” I tell her.

I kiss her harder than ever, grinding my body against hers. I’m fully clothed and she’s almost naked.

I close my mouth around her breast, sucking her nipple through the material of the swimsuit, just like I imagined. I taste the pool water, and I feel the hard point of her nipple against my tongue.

Then I yank down the front of the swimsuit, baring that heavy teardrop-shaped breast. I close my warm mouth around her cold little nipple. She cries out so loudly that I clamp my hand over her mouth again. I suck hard on her breast, flick her nipple lightly with my tongue, then suck hard again.

Simone squirms underneath of me. I grab her wrists, pinning them over her head. I move over to the other breast, ravenously sucking again. She squeals against my palm. I’m sure the stubble on my face is scratching the tender skin of her breasts.

Holding her wrists over her head with one of my hands, I reach down and hook my fingers under the elastic of her swimsuit. I pull the crotch to the side, baring her sweet little pussy.

Simone stiffens and lies very still. I slide my middle finger up and down the cleft of her pussy lips, feeling the velvet skin and the soft little tuft of hair. From the way her breathing slows and her heart rate quickens, I don’t think anyone has ever touched her here before. Her legs tremble as I part her pussy lips.

I moisten my fingers with her wetness and slide them back and forth over the nub of her clit. Simone lets out a long groan. Her knees press together. I force them apart with my thigh, spreading them open so I have full access to every place I want to touch.

Her pussy is like a tiny, perfect flower. The lips are the petals, and her wetness is the nectar within. I stroke my fingers through her folds, and rub circles around her clit with the flat of my thumb. Her breath is coming faster and faster. She arches her back, trying to press against my hand, but I have her pinned down against the mattress.

Her eyes are closed, her lips parted.

Slowly, very slowly, I slide my index finger inside of her.

She bites her lip, as if even that one finger is hard to take. She’s definitely a virgin. I wouldn’t be able to get my finger in at all if she wasn’t so wet.

I take my index finger out and put the middle finger in instead, which is a little thicker. She gasps again. I feel her pussy clenching around my finger. I feel the resistance of the parts of her that have never been breached before.

With my finger inside her, I slowly rub her clit again. She turns her face against my neck, eyes closed and lips pressed against my skin.

I rub a little harder, sliding my finger in and out of her.

She makes sounds like that little kitten in the closet—anxious and desperate. Her hands are still pinned. All she can do is move her hips half an inch, squeezing tight around my finger.

I can feel her climax building. I see the flush sweeping over her skin. I hear her gasping against my neck. I see her legs starting to shake.

As she starts to cum, she bites down hard on my shoulder, her sharp teeth almost breaking the skin. She lets out a cry only partially muffled by my shoulder.

Her pussy grips me tight. My finger is as wet as if I dipped it in oil. That’s the only reason I can still move it. Her whole body is trembling now, not just her legs.

At last she relaxes with a long sigh. I kiss her again, tasting the pheromones on her breath.

At that moment someone knocks on the door.

“Simone?” a female voice calls.

I jump up from the bed.

Before Simone can even reply, “Just a minute!” I’m already through the French doors, over the balcony railing, dropping down to the deck below.

I sprint off across the grounds, the scent of Simone on my fingers, my lips, and my skin.

5

Simone

I’m in so much trouble.

When I first kissed Dante, it was a wild impulse at the end of a bizarre event that I thought would be nothing more than a bubble in time—effervescent, and gone forever once the bubble popped.

Of course, I thought about him afterward. Constantly, in fact. But I never expected to see him again.

Then he broke into my room, and everything changed.

My universe swapped positions. Dante became the new reality. And everything else seemed as fragile as that bubble in the wind.

He consumed me entirely.

I lay awake all night, thinking about him.

I could smell his scent on my sheets—like cardamom and fir, spice and wood. I swear he left a dent in my mattress from his bulk.

I pressed my face into that dent, remembering.

His body on top of mine was overwhelming. The sheer size of him almost terrifying. Every time I touched a part of him—his boulder-like shoulder, or his bicep bigger than a softball—I couldn’t believe how thick and dense the muscles were.

His stubble was rough. It scratched my face and chest. He kissed me like an animal, thrusting his tongue into every part of my mouth. But he was gentle when he put his fingers inside of me. Like he knew no one had ever done that before.

And that orgasm . . . oh my god.

I tried to replicate it two or three more times later that night when I couldn’t sleep. I nuzzled my face into the pillow, smelling his scent, and I tried to remember exactly how he touched me. But my soft little hand was nothing like his huge calloused one, each of his fingers thicker than two or three of mine together.

It was maddening.

I had to have more of him.

I felt like I’d die if I didn’t get it.

But I was totally powerless. I had no way of finding him again.

Then, today, someone sent fifty pink roses to the house. There was no card. No name on the delivery.

I knew it was for me. The roses were almost exactly the color of my dress, the night of the gala. I knew they were from Dante. I knew he’d come find me again.

Tonight I’m supposed to go to a dinner for the Young Ambassadors. Mama asks me if I’m feeling well enough to go. When she heard me cry out in my room, I told her I fell asleep and had a nightmare. Of course, she assumes I’m traumatized from my brief kidnapping.

“I’m fine, Mama,” I promise her. “I really want to go.”

She looks at me skeptically. “Are you sure?” she says. “You look . . . feverish.”

“I’m sure! Please, Mama. I hate being cooped up at the house.”

She hesitates, then nods. “Alright. I’ll have the car ready for you at eight.”

“Thank you.”

I get dressed almost an hour early. Even though there’s no real reason to think this, I’m certain that I’ll see Dante tonight. Maybe not until after the party—actually, maybe I shouldn’t go at all. He might be planning to climb up to my room again.

No, I’ve got to go. Especially after I made such a fuss about it with Mama. I’ll go to the party, but I won’t stay long.