Chapter 2: Pressed Against the Prep Room Door
Dante didn't move right away.
He let her sit there on the stool, empty glass in front of her, the whiskey still burning a slow trail down her throat. The bar was so quiet she could hear the ice machine cycling in the back, a low mechanical groan that vibrated through the floor. The neon sign outside had stopped buzzing—or maybe it had just been turned off—and the only light came from the single bulb over the prep station and the faint green glow of the exit sign.
Breanna's fingers tapped against the bar top. Once. Twice. A nervous habit she thought she'd killed years ago.
"You're stalling," she said.
"I'm looking at you."
"Same thing."
Dante pushed off the counter and walked around the bar, his boots heavy on the sticky floor. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could smell him—soap and whiskey and something underneath that was just skin. Just him. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes and refused to look away.
"You can still leave," he said. "Door's unlocked now."
"I know."
"I'm not going to chase you."
"I know that too."
She stood up. The stool scraped against the floor, a harsh sound in the silence. They were close now, close enough that she could see the individual threads in his henley, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. He wasn't nervous. She hated that. She wanted him to be nervous.
"Where do you want me?" she asked.
Dante didn't answer with words. He reached out and took her wrist, his grip firm but not painful, and led her past the bar, past the row of empty stools, past the framed photo of some long-dead regular that hung crooked on the wall. The hallway to the back was narrow and dark, lined with boxes of napkins and cases of cheap vodka. The smell changed as they walked—less stale beer, more lemon and bleach, that faint metallic tang of a kitchen that had been cleaned a hundred times and never quite got clean enough.
He pushed open the door to the prep room.
The single bulb overhead flickered like it was thinking about dying. Stainless steel counters lined three walls, reflecting the light in jagged streaks. A cutting board sat on the center island, still damp from wiping down, a few stray lemon wedges scattered beside it. The fridge hummed in the corner, a deep, steady drone that swallowed every other sound. Breanna's heels clicked against the tile as she stepped inside, and the noise felt obscene in the tight space.
Dante closed the door behind them.
She turned to face him, a smart remark already forming on her lips, but he didn't give her the chance. His hand caught her shoulder and spun her around, pressing her back against the door. The wood was cold through her thin tank top. His body was hot. The contrast made her gasp, a tiny sound she tried to swallow.
He didn't kiss her.
Instead, one hand flattened against the door beside her head, caging her in. The other slid under the hem of her shirt, fingers splayed across her stomach, rough calluses catching on her skin. She sucked in a breath and held it, waiting, watching his face in the dim light.
"You think I'm going to make this easy for you," he said. His voice was low, close to her ear, warm breath ghosting across her neck. "You think you're just going to kneel down, do what I say, and walk out of here with your pride intact."
Breanna's jaw tightened. "I think you talk too much."
Dante's hand moved higher, sliding under her bra, palm rough against the soft swell of her breast. His thumb found her nipple and brushed across it, slow and deliberate, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound. Her hips shifted against the door, an involuntary roll that she immediately regretted.
"You're already wet," he said. Not a question. A statement.
"Fuck you."
"Not yet."
He pinched her nipple, just hard enough to make her breath catch, and she felt a pulse of heat between her legs. His mouth found her neck, teeth grazing the tendon that ran from her ear to her shoulder. Not kissing. Marking. Claiming. She tilted her head back against the door and stared at the flickering bulb, letting the light burn spots into her vision.
"This isn't one-sided," Dante murmured against her skin. "You get yours too. Tit for tat."
"Generous."
"I'm not a monster."
"Could've fooled me."
He pulled back. His hand slid out from under her shirt, leaving her skin cold and prickling. His eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them, pupils blown wide, jaw set. He looked like a man who'd made a decision and wasn't about to second-guess it.
Then he stepped back and reached for his belt.
The leather whispered through the loops. The buckle clinked. Breanna watched his hands—those tattooed forearms flexing as he worked the belt free, the quiet rasp of the zipper coming down. He didn't strip. Just opened his jeans, just enough, and hooked his thumbs into the waistband.
"On your knees," he said.
The words hung in the air between them. Breanna's heart hammered against her ribs. She could still walk out. He'd said it himself—door's unlocked. She could leave, find another bar, pretend this night had never happened. He wouldn't chase her. He wouldn't call. He'd just add her name to the list of people who'd disappointed him and move on.
She didn't want to be on that list.
The tile was cold under her knees. She felt the shock of it through her jeans, a sharp reminder that this was real, that she was actually doing this. Dante stepped closer, close enough that the denim of his jeans brushed her cheek. She looked up at him, and he looked down at her, and for a moment neither of them moved.
Then she reached for his waistband and pulled the fabric down.
He was already hard. She could see the outline through his boxers, thick and heavy, straining against the cotton. She licked her lips—an involuntary gesture, not meant to be sexy, just a reflex—and Dante made a sound low in his throat. Something between a groan and a growl.
"You want this," he said.
"I want to pay my tab."
"Bullshit."
He tangled his hand in her hair, not pulling, just holding. His fingers were warm against her scalp. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of it, and she realized with a start that he wasn't going to force her. He was waiting. Giving her one last chance to prove him wrong.
She pulled his boxers down.
His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, curving slightly toward his stomach. Breanna wrapped her hand around the base, feeling the heat of him pulse against her palm. He was bigger than she'd expected—not absurdly so, but enough that her fingers didn't quite meet around him. She heard his breath hitch, a tiny break in his composure, and she felt a flood of satisfaction.
Gotcha.
She leaned forward and dragged her tongue along the length of him, base to tip, slow and deliberate. The taste was salt and skin and something musky underneath. Dante's grip tightened in her hair, not painful, just present. A reminder that he was there. That she was on her knees in his prep room with the fridge humming and the light flickering, and he was watching every move she made.
"Stop teasing," he said.
"Make me."
He didn't. He let her set the pace, and she hated him for it. Hated how patient he was, how calm. She wanted him to break, to lose control, to prove that she still had the power in this room even with her knees on the cold tile and her mouth an inch from his cock.
So she took him deeper.
Her lips stretched around him and she slid down, taking him as far as she could before her gag reflex kicked in. She breathed through her nose, relaxed her throat, and pushed a little further. Dante's hand fisted in her hair, and this time it was harder. This time there was a tremor in his fingers.
"Fuck," he breathed.
The word sent a jolt of heat straight to her cunt. She pulled back and then swallowed him again, faster this time, her tongue pressing flat against the underside of his shaft. She could feel the vein that ran along the length of him, could taste the pre-cum that leaked from the tip. Her own arousal was a steady throb between her legs, almost painful with how much she wanted to touch herself—but she didn't. She kept her hands on his thighs, nails digging in just enough to leave marks.
Dante started moving. Slow rolls of his hips, fucking into her mouth with a rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart. His breath came in ragged gasps, and she heard him swear again, something low and filthy that made her stomach clench.
"That's it," he said. "Just like that."
She looked up at him through her lashes. His head was thrown back, the column of his throat exposed, the flickering light painting shadows across his face. He was beautiful like this—helpless, undone, all that quiet control stripped away by her mouth and her hands and the weight of her kneeling before him.
She pulled off him with a wet sound and wrapped her hand around his cock, stroking him fast and hard while she caught her breath.
"You're close," she said.
He looked down at her. "You're enjoying this."
"I'm paying my debt."
"No." He reached down and cupped her chin, tilting her face up. His thumb brushed across her slick lips. "You're getting off on this. I can see it."
She wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell him he was full of shit. But the words stuck in her throat, because he was right, and they both knew it. She was soaked through her jeans, her nipples so hard they ached, her whole body vibrating with a need she hadn't felt in—God, she couldn't remember how long.
"So what if I am?" she said.
"Then let's make it interesting."
He pulled her to her feet, hands gripping her waist, and spun her around. Her palms hit the stainless steel prep counter with a slap, the cold biting into her skin. The cutting board was right there, lemon wedges scattered across it, the smell sharp and citrusy and weirdly erotic in a way she didn't have time to analyze.
Dante pressed up behind her, his chest against her back, his cock still slick with her spit. He reached around and unbuttoned her jeans, yanked them down past her hips, past her thighs, until they pooled around her ankles. She stepped out of them, kicked them aside. Her panties followed a second later, torn down her legs and flung somewhere she couldn't see.
"Bend over," he said.
She did.
The counter was cold against her bare stomach, and she gasped when her skin made contact. Her ass was up, her thighs spread, her cunt exposed to the damp, humming air of the prep room. She heard Dante pick up something—a lemon wedge?—and then his hand was between her legs, spreading her open.
"Look at you," he murmured. "Fucking soaked."
"Shut up and—"
He pushed two fingers inside her without warning.
The stretch was sudden, sharp, perfect. Damn near perfect. Breanna's whole body shuddered, her cheek pressed flat against the cutting board, her hands scrambling for purchase on the slick steel. Dante didn't wait. He fucked her with his fingers, fast and rough, curling them just right against that spot that made her vision go white. She felt her orgasm building already, a tight coil in her belly, her thighs trembling with the effort of holding herself up.
"Don't stop," she gasped.
He stopped.
Pulled his fingers out and left her empty and aching and furious.
"You bastard—"
"Patience."
She heard him spit, felt the wet warmth of it hit her cunt, and then the blunt head of his cock was pressing against her entrance. Not pushing in. Just resting there, thick and hot and maddening.
"Tell me you want it," he said.
"Go to hell."
"That's not what I asked."
Breanna bit her lip. Her pride was screaming at her, telling her to keep her mouth shut, to make him work for it. But her body had already betrayed her, and the words were already forming, and she was so fucking empty without him inside her.
"I want it," she said through gritted teeth.
"Want what?"
"Your cock. Inside me. Now."
He slammed into her.
The force of it knocked the breath out of her lungs. One thrust, all the way to the hilt, his hips flush against her ass. Breanna clawed at the counter, a moan tearing out of her throat that she couldn't have stopped if she'd tried. He was thick and hard and so deep she swore she could feel him in her stomach.
Dante groaned, low and guttural, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. He didn't move for a second—just stayed there, buried inside her, both of them shaking.
"Fuck," he said. "You feel—"
"I know."
He pulled back and slammed into her again. Then again. Then again. Hard, brutal strokes that rattled the cutting board and sent lemon wedges rolling. Breanna's fingers slipped on the steel, her ankles tangling in her discarded jeans, every breath punched out of her with each thrust. The smell of him, of this room, of her own cunt filled the air, and she'd never felt filthier in her entire life.
She loved it.
"Harder," she managed.
Dante obliged.
He fucked her like he wanted to break her. Breanna's body was a live wire, every nerve ending firing at once, the coil in her belly winding tighter and tighter with each brutal stroke. She felt him lean over her back, his breath hot against her shoulder, and then his teeth were on her skin again, biting down on the curve where her neck met her shoulder.
"Come on," he growled. "Come for me."
She did.
The orgasm ripped through her like a freight train, a full-body convulsion that left her shaking and gasping and clenching around his cock. Dante fucked her through it, his rhythm faltering as she tightened around him, and she heard him curse—a long, filthy string of words that ended with her name.
"Breanna—fuck—"
He pulled out.
She turned her head just in time to see him wrap his hand around his cock, stroking fast and hard. His face was twisted up, jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut. He came with a grunt, ropes of cum painting the floor and the base of the counter and one of the lemon wedges, which Breanna would never be able to look at the same way again.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Dante's breath was ragged, his chest heaving. Breanna's cheek was still pressed to the counter, her legs like jelly, her cunt still throbbing with the aftershocks of the most intense orgasm she'd had in years.
He stepped back and she heard the soft rustle of fabric—his jeans being pulled back up, the belt being refastened. The buckle clinked again, and the sound was absurdly human after what had just happened.
She pushed herself up slowly, wincing at the ache in her thighs and the cold sweat on her skin. Her jeans were tangled around her ankles. Her shirt was still on, though it was bunched up under her armpits. She felt ruined in every possible sense of the word.
Dante was leaning against the far counter, arms crossed, watching her.
"Two-forty-seven," he said.
Breanna blinked. "What?"
"Your tab. You still owe two-forty-seven."
She grabbed a lemon wedge off the counter and threw it at him. He caught it one-handed, not even flinching, and looked at her with that same calm, unreadable expression.
"That was just the interest," he said.
"This," Breanna informed him, pulling her jeans up with as much dignity as she could manage, "is insane. This whole arrangement is insane. I just—you just—"
"I know what we just did."
"Then why—"
"That was one night. You owe me more than one night's worth of work."
She struggled with her zipper, which had somehow gotten stuck. "That's not—that's not what we agreed."
"We agreed you'd work off the tab. I didn't say how many shifts it would take."
"You're a monster."
"I'm a businessman." He pushed off the counter and walked toward her, stopping just close enough that she could still smell the sex on him. On both of them. "Besides. You liked it."
Breanna's jaw tightened. She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that she hadn't liked it, that she'd just been going through the motions, that he was nothing special and this whole thing had been a mistake.
But they both knew the truth. And she was too tired to lie.
"Same time next Friday?" Dante asked.
She finished fixing her jeans and straightened her shirt. Her hair was a disaster, she could feel it, but she didn't have the energy to fix it. She reached for the door handle and paused.
"Next Friday," she said, "you're buying me dinner first."
Dante didn't smile. But something shifted in his eyes, a flicker of warmth beneath the usual ice, and Breanna felt a dangerous little flutter in her chest.
"We'll see," he said.
She walked out without looking back.
The night air hit her like a slap, cold and sharp and blessedly sobering. Her car was still in the parking lot, a dumb, loyal sentinel. Breanna climbed inside, turned the key, and sat there with the engine running and the heater blasting and her hands still trembling on the steering wheel.
She'd just let him fuck her in a prep room. She'd enjoyed it. And tomorrow—or next Friday, or whenever the hell he decided—she was going to do it again.
"Fuck," she said out loud.
The cat was definitely going to judge her when she got home.