Isla's Resistance

Chapter 24: Isla's Resistance

Isla lay in the massive bed Dante had confined her to, her body still thrumming from his touch, her mind tangled in a war she didn't know how to win. The dim lighting of the bedroom cast long shadows across the walls, mirroring the darkness swirling inside her.

She should hate him.

She did hate him.

And yet, every time he touched her, kissed her, consumed her, her body melted into his like she belonged there.

She clenched the silk sheets, her breath uneven. This was a dangerous game, and she was losing herself in it.

Dante DeLuca was supposed to be her target.

Not her obsession.

Not the man who made her body burn with every glance, every whispered word.

She needed to regain control.

She needed to fight.

The door swung open.

Dante.

His presence filled the room, as intoxicating as the scent of expensive cologne and forbidden sin. He leaned against the doorway, his dark eyes watching her like a predator assessing its prey.

"You didn't eat," he noted, his voice smooth but laced with quiet authority.

Isla lifted her chin defiantly. "I wasn't hungry."

A slow smirk played on his lips as he stalked toward her, his steps deliberate, slow—designed to unsettle her. "Lies, dolcezza." He reached the edge of the bed, gripping the wooden frame. "You think starving yourself will make me let you go?"

She didn't answer.

His smirk deepened. "I don't break that easily, bella."

Neither do I.

She kept those words to herself, though, biting the inside of her cheek to stop the heat from rising in her chest as he leaned down, caging her between his arms.

His scent overwhelmed her.

His heat.

Everything about him was a temptation wrapped in danger.

Dante studied her, his fingers reaching out to trace the delicate curve of her jaw. "You can fight me all you want, but your body tells me the truth."

Her breath hitched as his fingers skimmed down her neck, barely touching her skin, yet setting it ablaze.

"Stop," she whispered, but there was no strength in her voice.

"Why?" His mouth hovered over hers, teasing, tormenting. "Because you don't want this?"

She wanted to say yes.

She needed to say yes.

But when his lips finally brushed against hers, all logic crumbled.

His kiss was slow, agonizingly sensual, designed to break down every last defense she had left. His hands roamed her body, possessive and knowing, mapping the curves he had already claimed.

Isla gasped as he gripped her hips, pulling her beneath him. His weight, his warmth, his dominance—it was too much.

Too intoxicating.

Too consuming.

His tongue slipped past her lips, coaxing hers into a slow, sinful dance. He wasn't rushing—he was savoring, tasting, claiming.

Her fingers dug into his back as she arched against him, her body betraying her again.

Dante pulled away slightly, his breath warm against her lips. "Tell me you don't want this."

She swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I…"

He pressed his hips against hers, and she felt him. Hard. Ready.

She was drowning.

Completely and utterly drowning.

Dante smirked against her lips. "Say it, bella."

But she couldn't.

Because it would be a lie.

Instead of answering, she crashed her mouth against his, gripping his shirt and pulling him closer, desperate to erase the war raging inside her.

Dante groaned into the kiss, his restraint snapping as he pinned her wrists above her head, deepening the kiss until she was gasping for air.

His lips trailed down her neck, nipping, teasing, leaving his mark.

Possession.

That's what this was.

Dante didn't just want her.

He wanted to own her.

And God help her, but she was letting him.

Her thin nightgown was no barrier between them as his hands explored, skimming over her thighs, her waist, up to her breasts. His fingers teased the sensitive peaks, drawing a strangled moan from her lips.

"You're mine," he murmured against her skin, his voice rough with need.

"No," she whispered back, even as her body betrayed her, arching into his touch.

His hand slid beneath her nightgown, fingers tracing fire along her inner thigh. "Liar."

Her breath caught as he reached the apex of her thighs, teasing, tormenting, making her crave more than she should.

"Dante…" Her voice was a desperate plea, though she didn't know if it was for him to stop or keep going.

"Shh, dolcezza," he whispered, his fingers slipping inside her, curling just right. "Just feel."

Her body clenched around him, heat pooling low in her stomach as he moved with slow, deliberate precision, building her up only to pull away before she could fall over the edge.

It was torture.

Sweet, maddening torture.

His mouth found hers again, devouring, stealing the very breath from her lungs as his fingers continued their wicked game.

And then, just as she was about to break, he pulled away completely.

She gasped, her body trembling, desperate for release.

Dante smirked, watching her with dark satisfaction. "You think you're in control, bella, but you're not."

Isla glared at him, furious, needy, completely undone. "I hate you."

Dante chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips. "You say that, yet here you are, letting me touch you, letting me own you."

She turned her face away, shame and desire warring inside her.

"You can resist me all you want, Isla." His voice was soft but firm. "But in the end, you'll come to me willingly."

He stood, leaving her panting, frustrated, aching.

Dante glanced at her one last time before striding toward the door.

"Goodnight, bella," he murmured before disappearing into the hallway, locking the door behind him.

Isla lay there, breathless, furious, and completely trapped.

Not just in his mansion.

But in him.

And that terrified her more than anything.