Page 142 of The Contract

He watches me, fascinated. But Dante’s eyes aren’t warm. Just dark, twisted curiosity. Like he’ll savor my screams once his teeth sink in. Relish the sweet taste of my pain.

He shifts beneath me, and I gasp. My soaked panties are currently gripping every thick, rigid inch of him through those custom-tailored, obscenely expensive pants.

And judging by his size? We’re firmly in lube-and-shoehorn territory.

He releases my wrist only to drag his fingers slowly, deliberately, along my necklace. Molten lava over bare skin.

“You’re playing with fire, Pom,” he rasps, hooking a finger beneath the necklace and jerking me forward until his lips graze my ear. “Waltzing in here. Wearing that necklace.” His voice drops, razor-edged disdain slicing every word. “With him.”

I swallow hard. “Him?”

His fingers twist the necklace tighter, just enough to make me flinch. “The man who brought you here. My uncle.”

His uncle?

Shit.

“You walked into my club on his arm. Don’t think I won’t punish you for that.”

Considering I’m about two seconds from combusting at the thought of it, message fucking received.

Then, abruptly, he releases me, like touching me suddenly disgusts him.

My skin ices over. His sudden detachment pisses me off.

“The man is using you.”

Maybe I’m using him,” I fire back. Sad—but true.

A low, warning rumble rises from his chest—dark, filthy, and hot enough to trigger a seismic event. “His respect for women ranks somewhere between ashtrays and whatever’s stuck to the bottom of his shoe. When he’s done with you, you’ll be filthier than both and twice as disposable.”

His words land sharp as rusted nails, driving deep into tender skin. But beneath their vicious bite is something softer, unexpected—almost disturbingly human.

Care? Concern?

From Dante D’Angelo, the human wrecking ball of tenderness? Yeah, I don’t think so.

Not exactly the roses and cannolis type. He offered me a pillow. For my knees.

Asshole.

I shove aside whatever delusional thought whispered there’s a halo crammed somewhere up his ass and force myself to focus.

Da’s knife.

My lips curl slowly into a snarky little pout purely designed to piss him off. “Is that jealousy I hear?”

A grim laugh punches from his chest. “Jealous? Of my uncle and the idiot child he dragged along to play dress-up?”

Blood drains from my face, leaving me raw, stripped bare. Idiot child. That’s what he thinks of me?

His finger hooks into my necklace, yanking my lips to his.

He doesn’t kiss me.

Rough stubble scrapes my cheek, igniting every nerve in my body.

Then his low voice slices through the air, brutal as a brick shattering stained glass.

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