The sheets still smelled like jasmine from the bath oil she'd over-poured, and the damp ends of her hair had soaked through the lace of the babydoll's shoulder. Isabella angled her phone higher, watching herself in the mirror mounted above her headboard — the one her mother had hung decades ago, she'd never known why. The baby blue fabric clung to the damp curve of her ribs, transparent in the lamplight, and her bare thighs pressed together the way she'd seen in a hundred photos she'd never sent to anyone.

Her thumb hovered over the shutter. Her reflection stared back, dark-eyed, lipstick gone, the girl who'd let the enemy spill into her on her father's sofa and in the back of his car. The girl who'd smiled at her father with come cooling on her skin.

She snapped the photo before she could think. The flash caught the sheen of water on her collarbone, the dark peak of her nipple through the lace, the way her thighs curved together at the top. She hit send before her second-guess could finish forming the sentence.

Then she dropped the phone face-down on her stomach and stared at the ceiling, her heart slamming so hard she could feel it in her throat.

Five days. Five days of dinner with her father, of Alessandro's engagement talk, of Serena's too-sweet smiles across the table. Five days of biting her lip in the bathroom mirror and feeling Dante's absence like a bruise between her legs. Five days of checking her phone every time it buzzed with anything, hoping, starving.

She'd told herself she wouldn't send the first message. She'd told herself that's not how this worked — he summoned, she came. That had been the promise, the thing she'd agreed to in the dark of his car. But five days was a long time to be good, and the babydoll had arrived in a plain box that morning, no return address, the fabric so sheer it was almost a dare. She'd worn it to bed without asking herself why.

Her phone buzzed against her navel. Not the whole phone — just the notification, that short electric pulse she'd been starving for.

She picked it up.

The screen was dark, then bright, and it wasn't a message at all. It was a photo. Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her mouth and just stayed there.

Dante's jaw, shot from below, the way he'd look down at her from the head of the bed. His thumb hooked under the collar of what looked like a white dress shirt, one button undone, and the scar from Prague catching the light — that pale, raised line she'd traced with her fingertip in the dark of her father's study, the one he'd only called Prague and nothing else. The photo was grainy, like he'd taken it in a hurry, and she could see the shadow of his throat, the hard line of his collarbone, the way his thumb pressed against the fabric like he was thinking about pulling it off.

Then the text came through, three words, no punctuation, no build-up:

That's my girl.

Isabella's thighs pressed together on their own. The heat flooded her, low and deep, a pulse that had nothing to do with the shower she'd just stepped out of. She could feel herself getting wet, a slow slickness against the lace, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste the ghost of her lipstick, gone now, but the habit remained.

Her fingers moved before she gave them permission. Then come get me.

She hit send and immediately wanted to snatch it back. That wasn't how this worked. He summoned, she came. She'd agreed to that in the dark of his car, his hand on her throat, his voice a low command that had made her knees weak. She was supposed to wait. She was supposed to be good.

But five days was a long time to be good.

The dots appeared. Then paused. Then disappeared.

Her stomach dropped. She stared at the screen, her reflection in the mirror above her head a pale ghost in the corner of her eye, the babydoll clinging to her damp skin, and she watched the dots come back.

Then the message landed. No words. Just an address.

She knew what it was before she opened it — the secret apartment, the one he'd promised, the one no one knew about except him and the man who cleaned it. The place he'd said he'd take her slow, and deep, until she begged.

Isabella sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around her waist, the lace of the babydoll shifting against her nipples, and she read the address three times like it might disappear if she blinked wrong.

Her phone buzzed again.

Now.

She was out of bed before she could think about what she was doing. The address was in the city, maybe twenty minutes away, and she was wearing nothing but a sheer piece of lace and the damp weight of her hair. She grabbed the first dress her hand found in the dark of her closet — a black slip, the kind that could pass for a nightgown if anyone asked — and pulled it over her head, the fabric sliding down her damp skin like it had been waiting.

Her father's house was quiet. The party had ended hours ago, the last of the caterers gone, Alessandro and Serena off to their own place, and her father asleep in his wing of the estate, dreaming whatever patriarchs dreamed. She moved down the back stairs in her bare feet, her keys in one hand, her phone in the other, the address glowing like a brand on the screen.

The garage smelled like motor oil and her mother's old perfume, the same scent that had hung in the study for years. She slid into her little black car, the one her father had bought her for graduation, and she didn't let herself think about what she was doing. She just drove.

The city lights smeared past her window. Her hair dried in the wind, curling at the ends, and the slip stuck to her thighs where she was still wet, where she'd been wet since she saw his jaw, his thumb, his scar. She pressed her legs together at every red light and thought about the way he'd looked at her in the study, that cold steel gaze that saw straight through her practiced defiance to the thing underneath — the thing that wanted to be taken.

The building was old, brick, with a fire escape zigzagging up the front and a single light burning in a third-floor window. She parked a block away and walked, her bare feet in the thin sandals she'd grabbed from the floor of her closet, the slip moving against her skin with every step. The street was empty. The city hummed somewhere in the distance, but here it was quiet, private, the kind of quiet that felt like a secret.

The door was unlocked. She stepped inside and the smell of him hit her — leather and something sharp, like cedar and cold air — and her knees went weak for a second, just a second, before she caught herself. She climbed the stairs. Three floors. Her heart in her throat the whole way.

The door at the top was ajar. Light spilled through the crack, low and warm, and she could hear the soft creak of a floorboard, the sound of someone moving. She pushed the door open.

Dante stood across the room, his back to her, pouring whiskey into a glass. He'd taken off the jacket. The white shirt hung open at the collar, and she could see the edge of a scar on his shoulder, a different one, older, a story she hadn't heard yet. The lamp on the side table cast his shadow long across the floor.

"Close the door," he said, without turning around.

She did. The latch clicked behind her, and the sound felt like a seal breaking.

"You came." He turned, finally, and his steel gray eyes found her across the room, and she felt the weight of that gaze like a hand on her throat. He looked at her — the slip, the damp hair, the bare legs — and something in his face shifted, a hunger he didn't bother to hide.

"You sent the address." She heard her own voice, low and steady, but she felt the tremor underneath it. "That's my girl" was still burning in her chest.

He set the glass down. It made a sound like a period at the end of a sentence. "And what did I say about you sending me pictures like that?"

Her throat went dry. "You didn't say anything about pictures."

"No." He crossed the room slowly, his steps deliberate, the way he'd crossed her father's study that first night. "But I'm saying it now. That photo, in that thing you're wearing —" his hand found the hem of the slip, his knuckles brushing the outside of her thigh, and she felt the touch like a live wire — "that was for me. Do you understand?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"I don't think you do." He stepped closer, his body a wall of heat in front of her, and his hand slid up her thigh, under the slip, finding the wet lace of her underwear. "You're soaked, Isabella. You sent me that picture and you got yourself this wet, and now you're standing in my apartment in a dress that's practically a nightgown, and you're telling me you understand?"

His fingers pressed against her through the lace, and her hips rolled forward on their own, chasing the pressure. She heard her own moan, low and broken, and she saw his mouth curve into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"That's my girl," he said again, softer this time, and the words went straight through her. He pulled her underwear aside, his fingers finding her slick, bare, and he made a sound low in his chest, a sound of possession. "You came here like this. You didn't even stop to put on proper clothes."

"You said now."

"I did." He pushed a finger inside her, and she gasped, her hands finding his shoulders, gripping the white shirt. "And you came. You always come when I call, don't you?"

"Yes." She could barely get the word out. His finger curled inside her, finding the spot that made her see stars, and she bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.

"Don't bite your lip." He pulled his hand away, and she felt the emptiness like a wound. "You don't need to lie to me. You never need to lie to me."

He undid the buttons of her slip one at a time, his eyes never leaving hers, and the fabric fell open, revealing the babydoll underneath, the sheer blue lace clinging to her damp skin, her nipples hard and dark against it. He looked at her for a long moment, and she felt seen in a way that had nothing to do with her father's parties or her practiced smiles.

"This," he said, his thumb brushing the lace over her nipple, "is what you put on for me. When you were alone in your bed, thinking about me, you put this on."

"It came in the mail." Her voice was barely a whisper. "This morning. I didn't—"

"I know." He cut her off, his thumb pressing harder, and she felt the spark of it all the way down. "I sent it. I wanted to see you in it. I wanted to see if you'd wear it for me without being told."

She stared at him. The man who'd taken her virginity on her father's sofa, who'd fucked her over the seat of his car, who'd promised her slow ruin in this apartment — he'd sent her the babydoll. He'd been thinking about her, the same way she'd been thinking about him.

"And you did," he said, his voice dropping, rough. "You wore it. You took that picture. You sent it to me and you got yourself wet, and you drove across the city in the middle of the night to stand in my apartment and let me take it off you."

His hands found the hem of the babydoll, and he pulled it over her head in one motion, leaving her bare, the cool air hitting her skin, her nipples tightening. She stood in front of him, naked, wet, her thighs pressed together, and she didn't feel the need to hide. Not here. Not from him.

"I have been thinking about this for five days," he said, his hands on her hips, pulling her against him. She could feel him hard through his trousers, the length of him pressing against her stomach, and the heat spiked, sharp and demanding. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you. Every time I shook a hand or signed a deal, I was thinking about the way you said my name in that study. The way you came on my mouth."

She was trembling. She could feel it, the fine vibration running through her limbs, and she didn't know if it was fear or want or both. He looked at her, his steel gray eyes holding hers, and something passed between them — something she couldn't name.

"I'm not going to be gentle," he said. "Not tonight. You came here in the middle of the night wearing nothing but lace, and I'm going to take you apart. Do you understand?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Say it." His hand found her throat, not squeezing, just resting, his thumb along her pulse. "Say you want it."

"I want it." Her voice was steady. "I want you."

He kissed her then, hard and claiming, his mouth crushing hers, and she tasted the whiskey on his tongue, the salt of him, the hunger. His hands found her ass, gripping, pulling her against him, and she felt the hard line of his cock through his trousers, the promise of it. She moaned into his mouth and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against hers, demanding, taking.

He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed — a big bed, dark sheets, the lamp casting a low glow across the room. She fell back onto it, the silk cool against her bare skin, and he stood over her, looking down, his eyes tracing the lines of her body like he was memorizing her.

"You're so beautiful," he said, and the words were rough, like they hurt him. "You have no idea what you do to me."

He undid his belt, the metal clinking, and she watched him — the way his hands moved, sure and deliberate, the way his shirt hung open, the scar on his jaw catching the light. He pushed his trousers down, and his cock sprang free, hard and thick, the head already slick. She felt her mouth water.

"You're going to take me in your mouth," he said, his hand finding her hair, gripping the damp strands. "And you're going to look at me while you do it."

She knelt up on the bed, her hands finding his thighs, the heat of his skin under her palms. She leaned in, her tongue tracing the vein on the underside of his cock, feeling his pulse against her lips, and he made a sound low in his chest — a sound she wanted to hear again. She took him into her mouth, the head pressing against her tongue, his hand tightening in her hair, and she looked up at him, her dark eyes meeting his steel ones.

"That's it," he breathed. "Take me deep."

She did. She opened her throat, taking him deeper, her eyes watering, and she heard him groan, his hips bucking forward, his hand guiding her. She sucked him, her tongue working the length of him, and she felt the power of it — the way his chest rose and fell, the way his jaw tightened, the way he watched her with that possessive, hungry gaze.

"Enough." He pulled her off him, his cock slick with her spit, and he pushed her back onto the bed. "I need to be inside you."

He spread her legs, his hands on her thighs, and he looked at her — her wet cunt, her flushed skin, her heaving chest — and he made that sound again, the one that made her feel claimed. He leaned down, his mouth finding her clit, and she gasped, her hips bucking, his tongue flat and hot against her. He sucked her, his fingers sliding inside her, curling, and she felt the orgasm building, coiling low in her belly.

"Dante—" His name came out broken, a plea she didn't have to hide.

"Not yet." He pulled his mouth away, his chin slick with her, and he positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her wet, swollen flesh. "Look at me."

She did. His steel gray eyes held hers, and he pushed inside her, slow, inch by inch, the stretch of him burning and perfect. She felt herself clench around him, her body welcoming him, and he filled her completely, the sensation overwhelming — the fullness, the heat, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel even better than I remember."

He pulled out, almost all the way, and then thrust back in, hard, and she cried out, her hands gripping the sheets. He set a rhythm, slow and deep, each thrust hitting the spot that made her see white, and she felt herself climbing, the tension building inside her.

"You're mine," he said, his voice rough, his hand finding her throat again, pressing lightly. "Say it."

"I'm yours." The words came out broken, desperate.

"Again." He thrust deeper, harder, and she felt herself clench around him.

"I'm yours. I'm yours—"

He kissed her, swallowing the words, his tongue sliding against hers as he fucked her, and she felt the orgasm crash over her, her cunt clenching around his cock, her body arching off the bed. He groaned into her mouth, his hips stuttering, and she felt him come inside her, hot and thick, filling her, and the sensation pushed her over again, a second wave that left her trembling.

He stayed inside her, his forehead pressed to hers, both of them breathing hard. The lamp cast long shadows across the ceiling, and she could feel his heart beating against her chest, or maybe it was her own.

"I sent you that address," he said, his voice low, "and I didn't think you'd come this fast."

"You said now."

"I did." He pulled out slowly, and she felt the loss of him like an ache, his come leaking from her onto the dark sheets. "But I didn't think you'd be here in twenty minutes."

She looked at him, her hand finding his jaw, her thumb tracing the scar from Prague. "I was already wet from your message."

His eyes darkened. "Is that right?"

"Yes." She didn't look away. "I saw your photo and I got wet, and I drove here soaking, and I walked up your stairs dripping, and I didn't care who saw me."

He kissed her again, softer this time, almost tender, and she felt something shift in her chest — something she couldn't name. She'd come here for this, for him, but the feeling underneath it was bigger than want. It was the thing she'd felt in the study, the thing she'd felt in the car, the thing she felt every time he looked at her — the terrifying, undeniable truth that she was his, and she'd do it again.

"You're staying tonight," he said. It wasn't a question.

"What if someone notices I'm gone?"

"Let them." His hand traced her hip, the touch light, possessive. "You're mine now. You don't go back to that house until I say you do."

The words landed in her chest, heavy and bright. She looked at him — this man, this enemy, this thing her father would kill her for wanting — and she felt the secret settle around her like a second dress.

"Okay," she said.

He pulled her against him, her back to his chest, his arm around her waist, and she felt his cock stir against her thigh, already hardening again. The lamp glowed, the city hummed beyond the window, and she lay in the arms of her father's rival, his come still inside her, and she thought about the address on her phone, the one she'd memorized, the one she'd come to.

She was his.

And she'd do it again.

His hand traced her hip, slow, deliberate, the pad of his thumb dragging a circle against her skin that she felt in her teeth. The lamp light caught the silver at his temples, the hard line of his jaw, and she watched him watching her, that steel gaze moving over her like he was cataloging every inch of what he'd just taken.

"What do you want next?" he asked.

The question landed in the dark between them, and for a second she didn't know how to answer. No one had ever asked her that. Not like this, not with his come still warm inside her and his hand still on her hip, not with his voice low and rough like the question cost him something. Her father told her what to want. Alessandro told her what to want. The world told her what to want — a good match, a safe life, a smile that never cracked.

Dante asked.

She felt the word rise in her throat before she could stop it, the thing she'd been thinking about since the back of his car, since his mouth on her in the study, since the moment she'd first seen him across a crowded room and known, with a certainty that terrified her, what she would let him do to her.

"I want you to take me from behind."

The words came out steady, but she felt the heat climb her chest, the flush spreading across her skin. She didn't look away. She'd spent her whole life looking away, hiding the thing underneath, and here, in this apartment, with this man, she was done hiding.

His hand stilled on her hip. The silence stretched, and she felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing, pressing on her, testing her.

"Say it again," he said.

"I want you to take me from behind." Her voice was stronger now, surer. "I want to feel you — I want to feel all of you, like that. I want to be on my knees for you."

Something shifted in his face. The hunger was still there, but underneath it, something darker, something that made her breath catch. He didn't speak for a long moment, just looked at her, and she felt seen in a way that made her want to look away and made her want to never look away again.

"You've been thinking about this," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Every night." She heard her own honesty like a confession. "In my bed, alone, thinking about what you'd do to me if you were there. Thinking about —" she swallowed — "about the way you'd take me. The way you'd make me yours."

His jaw tightened. He moved then, fast, his hands on her hips pulling her up onto her knees, and she gasped, the sudden motion sending a jolt through her. The sheets bunched under her palms, the dark silk cool against her skin, and she felt him behind her, the heat of his body, the hard line of his chest against her back.

"You want this?" His voice was rough in her ear, his hand sliding down her spine, over the curve of her ass. "You want me to fuck you like this?"

"Yes." The word came out breathless, desperate. "Please."

"Please what?" His hand found her hip, gripping, pulling her back against him, and she felt his cock, hard and thick, sliding along the cleft of her ass, teasing the wet heat of her cunt. She moaned, her head falling forward, her hands fisting in the sheets.

"Please fuck me," she whispered. "Please — I need you inside me. I need to feel you —"

He cut her off with a sound low in his chest, a sound of pure possession, and she felt his hand on the back of her neck, guiding her down, her chest pressing into the mattress, her ass rising to meet him. The position was obscene, surrender made flesh, and she felt herself get wetter just from the feel of it, the weight of his gaze on her exposed body.

"Look at you," he breathed. "So fucking perfect. You have no idea what you do to me."

She felt his thumb trace the line of her spine, down to the swell of her ass, and then his hand was on her cunt, his fingers sliding through her slickness, coating themselves in her. She whimpered, her hips pushing back against his hand, chasing the pressure.

"So wet," he said. "You got this wet just from asking me to take you like this?"

"Yes." She could barely get the word out. "Every time I thought about it — every time I touched myself thinking about it —"

"You touched yourself thinking about me?" His voice was low, dangerous. "Tell me. I want to hear it."

"Yes." Her face burned, but she didn't stop. "In my bed, at night, my fingers inside me, thinking about your cock, thinking about the way you'd fuck me, the way you'd make me beg —"

"And did you come?" He slid two fingers inside her, curling, and she cried out, her hips bucking against his hand. "Did you come thinking about me?"

"Yes — fuck, yes —"

He pulled his fingers out and she felt the emptiness like a wound, a desperate ache that made her want to sob. Then she felt him behind her, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, slick and hot, and she held her breath, waiting, wanting.

"This is what you wanted," he said, his voice rough, his hand gripping her hip. "This is what you asked for. You're going to take all of me, and you're going to tell me how it feels."

She nodded, her forehead pressed to the sheets, her body trembling with anticipation. "I will. I'll tell you — I'll tell you everything —"

He pushed inside her, slow, inch by inch, and the sensation was overwhelming — the stretch, the fullness, the way he filled her so completely. She cried out, her nails raking the sheets, her body arching to take him deeper. He was so thick, so deep, and she felt herself clench around him, desperate to keep him there.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice strained. "You feel — you feel like heaven, Isabella. Like you were made for this. Made for me."

He pulled out slowly, almost all the way, and she felt the loss like a physical ache, a desperate need. Then he thrust back in, hard, and she gasped, her body jerking forward with the force of it. He set a rhythm then, deep and possessive, each thrust hitting a spot inside her that made her see white, that made her forget her own name.

"That's it," he said, his hand sliding up her spine, gripping the back of her neck. "Take it. Take all of it."

She moaned, her face buried in the sheets, her hips pushing back to meet him, taking him deeper. The angle was different, deeper than before, and she felt herself climbing, the tension building low in her belly, coiling tight.

"Look at me," he said, his hand tightening on her neck. "I want to see your face."

She turned her head, her cheek against the sheets, her dark eyes finding his steel ones over her shoulder. He was watching her, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with hunger, and she felt the weight of that gaze like a hand on her throat.

"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice rough. "You have no idea what it does to me, seeing you like this. On your knees for me. Taking me like you were made for it."

She felt the words land in her chest, heavy and bright. "I was," she whispered. "I was made for this. Made for you."

His thrusts deepened, harder, and she cried out, her body shuddering, the pleasure building to a peak she couldn't hold back. She felt his hand slide around her, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight circles, and she shattered, her cunt clenching around his cock, her body arching off the bed, a broken cry escaping her lips.

He followed her over the edge, his hips stuttering, his grip on her neck tightening as he came inside her, hot and thick, filling her. She felt every pulse of him, every twitch, and the sensation pushed her over again, a second wave that left her trembling, boneless, spent.

He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them breathing hard, the lamp casting long shadows across the ceiling. Then he pulled out slowly, and she felt his come leaking from her, warm and wet, and she made a sound low in her throat, a sound she didn't recognize.

He turned her over, his hands gentle now, and she lay on her back, looking up at him, her chest heaving, her skin flushed. He looked at her for a long moment, his steel eyes tracing the lines of her body, and then he leaned down and kissed her, soft and almost tender, a kiss that felt like a promise.