A look of supreme satisfaction crossed his features. Still keeping me standing, he slid a hand between my thighs and up my skirt. His fingers slipped under my panties, thrusting deep within me. He exhaled with pleasure.

“God, you’re wet. Kind of wish I’d fucked you now.”

I kind of wished that too, but his fingers were going a long way to make up for that. I burned and ached for his touch, having grown more aroused than I’d expected to. He slid his fingers out of me, then moved them up to my clit and the center of my desire. He stroked and encircled, and I felt heat build up, ready to explode. I leaned forward, resting my hands on his shoulders where he sat. This put my breasts right in his face, and he leaned forward, sucking hard on one of them, teeth nipping at that sensitive skin. It wasn’t going to take much to make me come.

He pulled his mouth and fingers back at the same time. I whimpered, wanting—needing—him to touch me again.

“You want that? You want me to get you off?” His voice was soft and menacing.

“Yes . . .”

“Beg me,” he said menacingly. “Beg me to.”

“Please,” I begged, my body arching back, straining to get closer to him. “Please . . .”

His fingers and mouth returned, and like that, I exploded. The orgasm made my body spasm as I struggled to stay upright. My knees and legs were weak, but I knew if I collapsed, he wouldn’t be able to touch me anymore, and I wanted his fingers to keep stroking me as I came, bringing me to further and further heights of ecstasy.

Finally, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I gave in to my trembling muscles. I sank to the ground and rested my head against his knee. His hand found my hair, stroking it gently this time. The couch made for an uncomfortable respite, so we retired to my bedroom and collapsed onto the bed.

Sighing, Dante lay back against the covers and half-pulled the sheet over him. I hadn’t taken up much energy from him, but he still wore the exhausted, blissfully lethargic look of so many men after sex. I didn’t feel particularly wiped out, and upon realizing I’d left my cigarettes in the other room, I promptly climbed out of bed to retrieve them.

“I almost believed it this time,” he said when I reached the doorway.

“Hmm?” I asked, pausing and glancing back.

“That you were into it,” he explained. “I almost believed you were.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you accusing me of faking?”

“No, you never fake. But that doesn’t mean you’re always into it either. Sometimes I get the feeling you sleep with me simply because you’ve got nothing else better to do.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “There are plenty of guys better than you.”

He crooked me a smile. “But none who are as convenient or who can provide the illusion of a regular partner and bed warmer.”