Page 23 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
Not seduction but power, drawn slow like a blade from its sheath, held between teeth instead of fists.
"Close the tablet," he says, still not touching me properly. "This meeting’s over."
It’d be well within my place to laugh and make a flimsy comment about how arrogant and presumptuous he is.
Instead, I close it.
Not out of surrender.
Out of curiosity.
He watches me do it, then extends a hand—not in command, but in invitation.
I place mine in it.
The moment our fingers lock, I feel everything I’ve tried not to feel since that night in the bar, since that first glance over the table, since he walked in and looked at me like a man who already knew how I tasted.
He pulls me gently to my feet, then turns and walks toward the inner office that juts out beyond the conference room, its glass door tinted just enough to blur what happens inside.
My heels click against the floor.
I follow without speaking.
The office is spare.
Just a desk, a leather couch, a marble-topped bar with crystal decanters.
No cameras.
No distractions.
The kind of room where business ends and appetites begin.
He closes the door behind us and locks it.
I don’t flinch.
Dante turns, slowly, and studies me for a long moment.
There is no hurry in his gaze, no nervousness.
Just intent.
"Do you want me to leave you alone, Gianna?" he asks, voice lower now, rougher around the edges.
"No."
He steps forward, closing the space between us with three long strides.
His hand comes up, brushing the curve of my waist, fingers tracing the slit in my dress where it parts along my thigh.
I feel the warmth of his palm even through the fabric, and it makes my skin tighten beneath it.
"Say it again."
"I said no."
His mouth catches mine without ceremony, without hesitation.
