Chapter 3: Facing the Music
The shirt smelled like him—clean cotton and that faint, expensive scent of sandalwood and smoke. It hung past her thighs, the sleeves covering her hands, making her feel small. A fortress of fabric. Anié stood barefoot on the cool kitchen tile, clutching a steaming mug of black coffee Dante had wordlessly made for her. She watched the dark liquid swirl, unable to meet his eyes.
The kitchen was too bright, too revealing. It highlighted every flaw the forgiving night had hidden. She could feel the soft swell of her belly pressed against the cool marble island, the generous curve of her hips under the thin cotton. In the club’s darkness, pressed against him, she had felt powerful. Now, in the stark, clinical light, she felt exposed. The old, familiar script played in her mind on a loop. Too soft. Too much. A little less here, a little more there. The ghosts of past taunts, from school hallways and cruel teenage boys, echoed in the quiet hum of the refrigerator. She could almost hear the laughter, see the pointing fingers. She’d let him see her, all of her, in the most vulnerable way possible. The shame was a cold, slick thing in her gut.
Dante leaned against the opposite counter, sipping his own coffee, his gaze a tangible weight. He was dressed in low-slung sweatpants, his torso bare, the tattoos a vibrant map against his skin in the daylight. He looked completely at ease, which only made her feel more like an intruder.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence.
She glanced up, then immediately back down. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.” It was automatic, a brittle shield.
He set his mug down with a soft click. “Anié. Look at me.”
It took everything in her to lift her head. His eyes weren’t amused. They were patient, intent, seeing the furrow in her brow, the way she seemed to be trying to disappear into his shirt.
“You’re here,” he said, the words simple, deliberate. “In my kitchen. Wearing my clothes. After the night we had. Do you think I’d let just anyone do that?”
She shrugged, a tiny, hopeless gesture. “You’re being nice.”
“Fuck nice,” he said, a flash of frustration in his tone. He pushed off the counter and walked toward her. She stiffened. He stopped a foot away, not touching her. “Nice is for strangers. This isn’t nice. This is me wanting you here. Now. In this fucking kitchen. Looking like you just got out of my bed.”
Her throat tightened. “I look a mess.”
“You look fucked-out and beautiful,” he stated, no poetry in it, just raw fact. “You look like you belong right here.”
He reached out, his fingers hooking under the hem of the shirt she wore. He didn’t pull it up. He just held the fabric, his knuckles brushing her thigh. “Last night, you gave me the version of you that you keep hidden. The one that begs and takes and comes apart. I want this version, too. The one that’s scared. The one that doesn’t believe me. I want all of it.”
He tugged gently, pulling her an inch closer. “The bullies,” he said, and the word made her flinch, “were fucking idiots. They saw something soft and decided it was weak. They were wrong.” His other hand came up to cup her jaw, forcing her to hold his gaze. “This softness? It’s strength. It takes a strong woman to feel this deeply, to want this fiercely, and to still be standing here.”
A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb.
“I want you here,” he repeated, his voice dropping, gravelly with a sincerity that dismantled her. “Not in spite of this,” his hand slid from her jaw, over the curve of her shoulder, down to her hip, squeezing the fullness there through the shirt, “but because of it. Every fucking curve.”
The emotion in the room shifted, thickening, heating. His reassurance wasn’t just words anymore; it was a physical claim. The look in his eyes transformed from patience to a dark, focused hunger. The thumb at her hip began to move, a slow, insistent circle.
“You don’t believe me with words,” he murmured, his head dipping close to hers. “So let me show you.”
His mouth captured hers in a kiss that was different from the night before—less conquering, more proving. It was deep, possessive, and unbearably sweet. He tasted of black coffee and certainty. One hand fisted in the hair at the nape of her neck, angling her head to take more of him. The other hand finally pulled the hem of the shirt up, his palm searing against the bare skin of her thigh.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Up,” he commanded, his voice rough.
“What?”
“On the counter. Now.”
She hesitated for only a second before placing her hands on the cold marble and hoisting herself up. The edge bit into the backs of her thighs. He stepped between her knees, pushing them apart with his hips. The shirt rode up, pooling around her waist, leaving her completely naked from the waist down, exposed in the bright kitchen light. She made a small sound of protest, trying to close her legs, but he held them open, his hands gripping her inner thighs.
“Look at you,” he growled, his eyes devouring the sight of her splayed open for him. “Fuck, Anié. You’re gorgeous. Every part.”
He leaned in, not to kiss her mouth, but to run his tongue roughly from the delicate skin of her inner thigh up to the very core of her. She cried out, her hands flying to his shoulders. He was relentless, his mouth and tongue worshipping her with a filthy, exquisite precision that left no room for doubt. He lapped at her, sucked her clit into his mouth, drove his tongue inside her with a rhythm that had her seeing stars within minutes. The crude, wet sounds filled the kitchen, a stark counterpoint to the civilized hum of appliances.
“Dante… I can’t…”
“You can,” he muttered against her, the vibration making her sob. “Come in my mouth. Let me taste it.”
It was too much. The intimacy of the act, the vulgarity of his command, the sheer intensity of his focus on her pleasure shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and blinding, her back arching off the cold counter as she screamed his name into the sterile air.
Before the last pulse had faded, he was unbuckling his sweatpants, freeing his hard, thick cock. He was already slick at the tip from her arousal. He positioned himself at her entrance, his eyes locked on hers, both of them panting.
“See this?” he grunted, pushing the broad head against her, stretching her. “This is want. Pure, fucking want.”
He thrust home in one savage stroke, filling her completely, knocking the air from her lungs. He didn’t pause. He set a brutal, driving pace, the island shuddering with each powerful surge. Each slap of his hips against her thighs was a punctuation mark in his argument.
“You feel that?” he gritted out, his hands gripping her hips hard, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her belly. “That’s how much I want this. All of this. Your skin. Your sounds. This tight, perfect cunt milking my cock.”
He was fucking her with a raw, unvarnished passion that was more convincing than any gentle compliment. He bent her backward over the counter, one arm bracing her, the other hand tangling in her hair. The change in angle made him sink even deeper. She was boneless, overwhelmed, a conduit for his intensity.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his pace becoming frantic, erratic. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to right now.”
“You,” she gasped, the truth torn from her. “You, Dante.”
“Damn right.” With a final, guttural roar, he plunged into her, holding himself deep as he came, his release hot and endless inside her. He collapsed forward, catching himself on his hands, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling in ragged gusts.
The cold marble was a shock against her back. The smell of sex and coffee hung in the air. He was still inside her, softening. He lifted his head, his eyes searching hers.
“Any questions?” he breathed, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.
She could only shake her head, utterly spent, her mind finally, blessedly quiet. The insecurities weren’t gone, but they were muffled, pushed aside by the visceral, overwhelming evidence of his desire. He pulled out gently, helping her sit up. He reached for a dish towel, ran it under warm water, and carefully cleaned her thighs with a tenderness that contrasted violently with how he’d just taken her.
He pulled the shirt back down over her hips, then simply pulled her against his chest. She went, burying her face in the smell of his skin, listening to the frantic beat of his heart slowly steady.
“Breakfast?” he asked after a long moment, his voice a rumble under her ear.
She nodded against him.
She nodded against him. He kissed the top of her head, a simple, grounding press of his lips, then let her go. She stayed perched on the counter, watching as he moved to the refrigerator. The sheer domesticity of it was more disorienting than the sex had been. He pulled out eggs, butter, a package of thick-cut bacon. He worked with a quiet efficiency, his back to her, the muscles in his shoulders shifting under his skin.
The sizzle of butter hitting a hot pan filled the room. The rich, salty smell of bacon soon followed, weaving with the lingering scent of their bodies. Anié pulled the oversized shirt tighter around herself, the soft fabric a whisper against her sensitized skin. She felt raw, hollowed out and remade. The cold marble beneath her, the warm ache between her legs, the fading marks from his hands on her hips—it was all a tangled proof of something she couldn’t yet name.
He piled food onto two plates: golden scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, toast. He set them on the small kitchen table by the window overlooking the waking city. He pulled out a chair for her. "Come eat."
She slid off the counter, her legs still unsteady. She sat, and he placed a glass of orange juice in front of her before taking the seat beside her, not opposite. Close. Their knees almost touched. They ate in silence for a few minutes, the food simple and perfect. He watched her take a bite of egg, his gaze intent.
"Last night," he began, his voice low. "And this morning. That wasn't a transaction."
She put her fork down, her appetite vanishing. "I know."
"Do you?" He pushed his own plate aside and turned fully toward her. The morning light cut across the serious planes of his face. "Because I need you to understand something. I want you. Not just for a night. Not just for a few days of fucking you senseless on every surface I can find." He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her wrist where it rested on the table. "I want you all the time. And not just the sex. I want the quiet, too. I want you in my kitchen, wearing my shirt, eating my food. I want to know what you think about when you're alone. I want the real you, the one you're so terrified to show."
Her breath hitched. "Dante..."
"Give me your phone." The command was soft.
Without thinking, she retrieved it from the pocket of her discarded jeans, which lay in a heap by the island, and handed it to him. He took it, his fingers brushing hers. He unlocked it—she’d never given him the code, he must have seen her enter it earlier—and navigated to her contacts. He typed in his name and number. He didn't save it as 'Dante.' He saved it as Dante (yours).
Then he opened a new text message, typed a single period, and sent it to his own number. His phone, on the counter, buzzed softly. He picked it up, saved her number. He handed her phone back to her. "Now you have me. And I have you. No ghosts. No disappearing."
He leaned closer, his elbow on the table, his body a wall of warmth and intention. "Give me a chance. A real one. To prove I'm not like the voices in your head or the boys in your past who were too stupid and blind to see the woman in front of them." His hand came up, his thumb stroking her lower lip. "Let me be the man who makes you feel it. Every damn day. How beautiful you are. How wanted. How fucking cherished."
Tears welled in her eyes, but they didn't fall. They just shimmered, blurring his face. The promise in his words was terrifying. It was solid, a thing she could reach out and touch, unlike the hollow compliments she was used to. He wasn't just talking about her body. He was talking about the bruised, hesitant heart inside it.
She saw it then, the genuine patience warring with his dominant need. He wanted this. He wanted her. Not a projection, not a fantasy, but the whole complicated, insecure reality. The realization was a key turning in a long-locked door.
She didn't speak. Instead, she slid from her chair and into his lap, straddling him, her arms winding around his neck. She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him, soap and skin and certainty. His arms came around her, strong and secure, holding her together as she trembled.
"Okay," she whispered against his throat, the word more breath than sound.
His embrace tightened. He held her there for a long time, as the breakfast cooled on the table and the city below them roared to life, a world away.