He didn't give me the chance to beg.
His mouth crashed down on mine.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. A violent claiming. He kissed me like he hated me, or like he wanted to save me, or maybe both. His lips were hard, hot, and demanding, crushing mine with a hunger that stole the breath right out of my lungs.
A gasp broke from my throat, but he swallowed it whole. His injured arm, the one that should have been useless, tightened around me like iron, pulling me flush against his chest. He didn't care about the pain. All he cared about was this.
I melted.
My hands clawed at his shoulders, desperate to get closer, to climb inside his skin. The friction of his rough denim jeans against my bare thighs sent shocks of electricity straight to my core. I arched my back, pressing myself into him, meeting his savage rhythm.
His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting, taking. He tasted like danger. Like whisky and adrenaline. It was intoxicating.
His hand moved from my waist to my jaw, his thumb pressing hard against my cheekbone, holding me in place as he devoured me. I could feel the rumble of a growl in his chest, a vibration that traveled through my own body.
For a few seconds, the world didn't exist. There were no mafia. No fathers. No cages. Just the heat of his mouth and the desperate, frantic beat of our hearts hammering against each other. I was burning alive, and I never wanted to be put out.
Then, he froze.
It was instantaneous. One second, he was consuming me. The next, he turned to stone.
He tore his mouth from mine with a rough, guttural sound.
His hands, which had been holding me like I was his lifeline, suddenly shoved me away.
"No."
The word was a harsh bark. He pushed me off his lap. I stumbled back, my bare feet slipping on the cold tile floor. I caught myself on the sink, gasping for air, my lips swollen and throbbing.
I looked at him, dazed.
Dante stood up. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving. But his face... his face was terrifying. The heat was gone. The hunger was gone. In its place was a wall of ice. His eyes were black pits of fury, directed entirely at himself.
He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the strands tight, as if he wanted to rip them out.
"This..." He pointed a shaking finger between us. "This was a mistake."
My heart, which had been soaring, crashed into my stomach. "Dante..."
"Don't," he snapped. He wouldn't even look at me now. He turned his back, adjusting his ruined shirt over the bandage. "It was the adrenaline. The shock. That's all."
His voice was cold. Clinical. He was dismissing the most powerful moment of my life as a biological reaction.
"It didn't feel like just adrenaline," I whispered, my voice trembling.
He spun around. He loomed over me, his expression hard. "It doesn't matter what it felt like, Miss Moretti. I am your bodyguard. You are the job. That is the only reality."
He walked to the door, his steps heavy. He paused with his hand on the frame, but he didn't turn around.
"Forget this happened," he said. "Because it won't happen again."
Then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him.
I stood alone in the white bathroom. The silence was deafening. The steam on the mirror was fading, just like the heat of his body on mine.
I raised a hand to my lips. They still tingled. I could still taste him.
Forget this happened.
I looked at my reflection. My eyes were wild, dark pupils blown wide. My skin was flushed. I looked like a woman who had just been unmade.
He could call it a mistake. He could call it a job.
But I knew the truth. I felt it in the ache deep inside me.
He had just given me a taste of poison.
And help me, I was already addicted.