Heartbreak is One Thing— His Finger, Another

Isabella

A shadow loomed above me.

"Fernando?" I whispered, not daring to look.

"I don't want to hear a single word from you—"

"It's me."

The voice wasn't Fernando's.

It was Dante.

My heart did something stupid—leapt, twisted, I don't know. I stood, slowly, and turned to face him.

"What do you want?" I spat. "Why are you following me?"

His lips quirked. "Comment vas-tu?"

"Was that French?"

"Niente, fragola. È inglese."

"Oh, Italian now?"

"Estás borracha?"

"No. No, I'm not drunk," I snapped. "That's Spanish—and I'm Spanish, genius."

"Isabella," he growled suddenly, voice deep and rough, "I'm speaking English."

His shout jolted something in me. My vision, blurred from tears, focused slightly.

"Don't yell at me again, bastard," I warned, voice shaking.

"You need sleep." His tone shifted. Softened. "Thank God you didn't end up in some other bastard's room tonight."

My heart faltered.

He cared.

Dante—the monster—cared.

"Dante…" I whispered, voice cracking. "Fuck me. Please."

His face twisted, surprise and restraint battling in his eyes.

"No. You're drunk."

"I'm not. I swear," I said, stepping closer. "I came for a cock. Yours. I want your eight inches in me—now."

He blinked, jaw tightening.

"No, Isabella. I can't."

"Fuck you then." I stormed into his bathroom like I owned the place.

He followed.

But instead of dragging me out, or pushing me up against the wall like I almost wanted him to, he just… watched me. Like I was fragile. Like I was broken glass on marble floors.

He stepped toward the tub and turned on the water. Warm steam filled the room. Then came oils, salts, scents—lavender, vanilla, something expensive.

He dipped his hand into the water. Then, without a word, he picked up the scrub.

I stood frozen.

And he bathed me.

Inch by inch. Shoulder to wrist. Spine to ankle. He scrubbed gently, as if washing shame off my skin. No hunger. No lust. Just… care.

The monster had a heart.

And I didn't know what the fuck to do with that.

When the bath was done, he picked up a towel. I thought he'd undress and join me—but he didn't. He turned his back and held it out.

"Come on," he said softly.

I stepped out of the tub, trembling like a fool, and let him wrap me. My skin dripped. My heart bled.

I walked into his bedroom, towel tight around me.

"You can sleep in one of my shirts," he murmured behind me, already searching drawers.

I didn't wait.

I turned and kissed him.

He didn't kiss me back—but he didn't stop me either.

I kissed him again. Harder. Until I tasted blood from his bitten lip. My hand traced his neck, down his chest, over his abs, finding that deep V that pointed to everything I wanted.

But when my fingers started to follow it—he caught my wrist.

Firm. Gentle. Final.

"No," he whispered.

Something shifted in him.

I'd finally lured him in.

His fingers brushed my lips, then curled gently under my chin. I tilted my face up, and before I could even breathe, he was kissing me like his life depended on it.

No more hesitation.

No more control.

We kissed again—and again. Until I couldn't tell where he ended and I began.

My hand slid down and cupped his cock through the fabric, and he groaned against my mouth. His hand found my breast, kneading gently, and the tension between us snapped like a live wire. I fumbled with his belt, unbuckled it, and yanked the zipper down. He wore Calvin Klein—exactly how I liked to see it. My favorite kind of temptation.

I was about to pull him free when he shoved me back onto the bed.

The towel slipped.

I was naked.

Laid bare.

He climbed over me, one leg sliding between mine. His mouth found mine again. Fierce. Starved.

"Do you want it, strawberry?" he whispered, his voice dipped in dirt.

"Yes," I breathed. "All of it. Fill me up. Isn't that what you've been waiting for?"

I pulled him closer, lips grazing his ear. His breath hitched.

Dante had a power touch.

His hands glided down my neck, then over my breasts, my stomach, my waist—and lower.

Lower.

He didn't enter me. Not yet. He skimmed over the slick heat of me, and my entire body jerked. A moan clawed out of my throat.

Then his thumb found my clit.

He pressed. Just once.

My back arched and my eyes nearly rolled into the back of my head.

Electricity. Raw, unforgiving.

Fuck Fernando.

Fuck Lorenzo.

Dante was the one who knew what he was doing.

His lips were still near my ear, breath warm, voice low and wicked.

"I barely touched you," he whispered, his thumb now circling that aching bundle of nerves with excruciating precision. "And you're already shaking."

"I'm not—" My voice caught on a moan when he slid his fingers lower, teasing between my folds like he was learning me. Memorizing me. "You're not—God—"

One long finger slipped inside me.

I gasped. My head fell back against his shoulder. He moved slowly at first—deep and unhurried—until my walls clenched around him like they didn't want to let go.

His growl rumbled against the side of my neck. "You're gripping me like you've never done this before."

I hadn't.

Not like this.

Fernando's hands were rough, his kisses sloppy, like he was trying to finish a race no one else was running.

Lorenzo never even got close.

But Dante? Dante touched me like he owned me. Like my body was his territory and he was staking a claim with every curl of his fingers.

He added a second.

I nearly broke.

The stretch burned in the best way—tight, full, and so goddamn right it made my toes curl in the carpet.

He kissed the side of my neck, slow and deep, like he was tasting my surrender. "Say it."

I blinked, vision hazy. "Say what?"

"That this is the best you've ever felt."

His fingers curled just right, hitting something deep and devastating.

A scream tore out of my throat.

"Fuck—Dante—"

He didn't stop. Just kept working that rhythm, fingers deep, thumb pressing relentless circles over my clit until my thighs were shaking and my nails dug into his forearm.

"I want to hear you say it," he growled, his voice darker now, more demanding. "Tell me they never made you feel like this."

My pride held on for half a second.

Then I shattered.

"No one," I gasped. "No one, Dante—just you."

His low, satisfied groan vibrated against my skin. "That's right. Because your little arranged fiancé doesn't know what the fk he's doing. And Fernando?" He gave a cruel laugh. "You moaned louder from my fingers than you ever did from his dick."

I didn't even deny it. I couldn't.

Because it was true.

And because I was too far gone to care.

His hand never stopped moving. The wet sound of my arousal mixed with my breathless moans, the obscene rhythm of his fingers turning me into something primal.

And just when I thought I might come—

He stopped.

"Dante," I gasped, hips lifting off the couch. "Don't—don't stop."

His breath was ragged against my shoulder. "You want to come?"

"Please," I whispered.

"Then look at me."

I turned, barely able to focus through the heat pulsing between my legs. His eyes locked on mine—dark, hungry, and possessive in a way that made my stomach clench.

"You'll come," he said, "but you'll come on my terms."

Then his fingers plunged back inside—deeper, harder, faster.

Stars exploded behind my eyes.

My moan was long and broken as my body seized up, pleasure ripping through me like wildfire.

I came with his name on my lips and my nails clawing at his skin.

He didn't stop right away. Just slowed down, coaxing every last tremor from me while my legs trembled and my head lolled back.

When he finally pulled his fingers free, I whimpered at the loss.

He brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean, eyes locked on mine.

"Taste that?" he murmured. "That's mine."

I should've slapped him.

But all I could do was breathe.

Shaky. Spent. Completely, irrevocably his—if only for tonight.