I’m in so much trouble.
When I first kissed Dante, it was a wild impulse at the end of a bizarre event that I thought would be nothing more than a bubble in time—effervescent, and gone forever once the bubble popped.
Of course, I thought about him afterward. Constantly, in fact. But I never expected to see him again.
Then he broke into my room, and everything changed.
My universe swapped positions. Dante became the new reality. And everything else seemed as fragile as that bubble in the wind.
He consumed me entirely.
I lay awake all night, thinking about him.
I could smell his scent on my sheets—like cardamom and fir, spice and wood. I swear he left a dent in my mattress from his bulk.
I pressed my face into that dent, remembering.
His body on top of mine was overwhelming. The sheer size of him almost terrifying. Every time I touched a part of him—his boulder-like shoulder, or his bicep bigger than a softball—I couldn’t believe how thick and dense the muscles were.
His stubble was rough. It scratched my face and chest. He kissed me like an animal, thrusting his tongue into every part of my mouth. But he was gentle when he put his fingers inside of me. Like he knew no one had ever done that before.
And that orgasm . . . oh my god.
I tried to replicate it two or three more times later that night when I couldn’t sleep. I nuzzled my face into the pillow, smelling his scent, and I tried to remember exactly how he touched me. But my soft little hand was nothing like his huge calloused one, each of his fingers thicker than two or three of mine together.
It was maddening.
I had to have more of him.
I felt like I’d die if I didn’t get it.
But I was totally powerless. I had no way of finding him again.
Then, today, someone sent fifty pink roses to the house. There was no card. No name on the delivery.
I knew it was for me. The roses were almost exactly the color of my dress, the night of the gala. I knew they were from Dante. I knew he’d come find me again.
Tonight I’m supposed to go to a dinner for the Young Ambassadors. Mama asks me if I’m feeling well enough to go. When she heard me cry out in my room, I told her I fell asleep and had a nightmare. Of course, she assumes I’m traumatized from my brief kidnapping.
“I’m fine, Mama,” I promise her. “I really want to go.”
She looks at me skeptically. “Are you sure?” she says. “You look . . . feverish.”
“I’m sure! Please, Mama. I hate being cooped up at the house.”
She hesitates, then nods. “Alright. I’ll have the car ready for you at eight.”
“Thank you.”
I get dressed almost an hour early. Even though there’s no real reason to think this, I’m certain that I’ll see Dante tonight. Maybe not until after the party—actually, maybe I shouldn’t go at all. He might be planning to climb up to my room again.
No, I’ve got to go. Especially after I made such a fuss about it with Mama. I’ll go to the party, but I won’t stay long.
I really am feverish, my brain bouncing around like a pinball machine. It’s hard to focus long enough to get dressed.
This dinner is a little less formal than the gala. I’m about to grab one of my pretty pastel party dresses, but then a wicked spirit seizes me, and I grab a different dress from the closet instead.
This is one I’ve never worn before—emerald green, near-backless, with a slit up the thigh. Material thin enough that you could crumple the whole thing up and stuff it in a clutch. I slip on a light jacket over top, so my parents won’t notice.
I line my eyes a little darker than usual, and I wear my hair down loose around my shoulders. I have wavy hair—dark, with just a hint of red in it if the light hits it right. My father always tells me I look best with my hair up, but I suspect that’s because I look a little more wild when it’s down.
That’s alright. I feel a little bit wild tonight.
I don’t get this way very often. Actually, I can’t think of a single night when I left the house in a spirit of rebelliousness.
Tonight I’m thrumming with energy. The evening air feels crisp against my face. Even the exhaust from the waiting car smells sharp and exciting.
Wilson is driving me. He’s being extra nice—I think he feels guilty that I was “kidnapped” on his watch. Even though I told him a dozen times it wasn’t his fault.
He takes me over to the Pritzker Pavilion in Millennium Park. The pavilion looks like a vast chrome spaceship touched down in the middle of the park. It’s bizarre and futuristic, and to my eyes, quite beautiful.
Because the pavilion is used for outdoor concerts, it includes a huge oval trellis stretching out over the grass, to create the perfect acoustics for outdoor listening. The trellis is strung with golden lights, and indeed, it’s reflecting the sounds of the string quartet playing on the stage.
The open lawn is already crowded with partygoers. The Young Ambassadors is a youth organization for young people interested in a career in foreign service. In practice, it’s stuffed with the kids of diplomats and politicians, looking to pad their resumes for college applications.
I’ve been a part of it for five years, first in France and now here. Plenty of the kids have attended international events, so I see at least a dozen people I recognize.
One of them is Jules, a boy from Stockholm whose father is a Swiss Councilor. As soon as he sees me, he comes over with an extra glass of sparkling apple juice in hand.
“Bonsoir Simone!” he says, handing me the drink. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I already knew he was in Chicago. Mama made sure to tell me. Jules is exactly the kind of boy I’m allowed to date—when I’m allowed to date at all. He’s polite, respectful, from a good family.
He’s actually pretty cute, too. He’s got dirty-blond hair, green eyes, a smattering of freckles, and the kind of perfect teeth you only get from early and expensive orthodontic intervention.
I had a crush on him a couple years back, after we both attended a fundraiser in Prague.
But tonight, I notice how I’m actually an inch taller than him in heels. He looks childish in general compared to Dante. That applies to everyone here. Dante makes even grown men look like boys.
Still, I smile back at Jules and thank him for the drink. I always remember my manners.
“You look . . . wow,” Jules says, letting his eyes flit over the revealing green dress. I took off the jacket and left it in the car with Wilson.
“Thanks,” I say.
Usually I’d be blushing, regretting my choice in the sea of girls dressed like they stepped out of a Lilly Pulitzer catalog. But tonight I’m feeling myself. I’m remembering the way Dante attacked me with his hands and mouth, like my body was the most luscious one he’d ever laid eyes on.
He made me feel sensual. Desirable.
And I liked it.
“Fernand and Emily are here, too. Would you like to sit at our table during the dinner?” Jules asks me.
He gestures over by the stage, where two or three dozen white-linen-covered tables have been erected, with formal place settings and covered bread baskets all ready to go.
“I—oh!”
I was about to say yes. Until I caught sight of a hulking figure at the edge of the field, standing away from the lights. Though I can’t see his face, I recognize those Goliath proportions immediately.
“What it is?” Jules asks me.
“I’ve got to go to the ladies’ room,” I say abruptly.
“Of course. It’s over by the—”
“I can find it!” I say.
I hurry away from Jules, leaving him standing there with a baffled expression.
I don’t go directly over to Dante. I walk as if I’m headed to the portable toilets, then I cut back the opposite direction, slipping away from the amphitheater, and into the trees of Millennium Park.
This is the first time I’ve directly broken the rules.
When Dante stole the car with me in the backseat, that wasn’t really my fault.
The same when he broke into my room. I couldn’t be blamed for either of those things.
But now I’m making a conscious choice to leave the party and go meet a criminal in the woods. This is so unlike me that I hardly know myself. I should be sitting at a table with Jules, sipping sparkling apple juice like a good girl.
But that’s not what I want at all.
What I want is stalking me through the shadows under the trees. I can hear his heavy tread behind me.
“Are you lost, miss?” he growls.
“I might be,” I say, turning around.
Even though I came over here to find him, I still feel my heart rising up in my throat at the sight of him.
I didn’t realize he was standing so close. In heels, I’m almost six feet tall. Dante still towers over me. In width, he’s at least double my size. That stern, brutal face is terrifying in the darkness. His black eyes glitter.
I’m trembling. I can’t help it. I feel naked with his eyes roaming over me.
“Did you get the flowers I sent you?” Dante says.
“Yes,” I squeak.
He steps even closer to me, so I can feel the heat of his broad chest, just inches from my face.
“Did you wear that dress for me?” he says.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Take it off,” he says.
“W—what?” I stammer.
We’re only a hundred feet from the party. I can still hear the music—Brahms, I think. I can even hear the murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses.
“I said take it off.”
I’m an obedient girl. I usually do what I’m told. Especially when it comes from an authority.
Before I can think, I slip the spaghetti straps of the dress down my shoulders, baring my breasts to the cool night air. I can feel my nipples tightening. Their tautness feels like someone is touching them, though Dante hasn’t lifted a hand. Yet.
I drop the dress all the way down to the grass and fallen leaves. Then I step out of it.
“Panties, too,” Dante orders.
My heart is racing. I’ve never been completely naked in front of a man.
I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my underwear and pull that down, too.
Now I’m standing nude except for a pair of heels in a copse of trees in a public park. Anyone could walk by at any time. I resist the urge to cross my arms over my breasts.
I can feel a light breeze sliding over my skin, like human breath. When the air touches between my legs, I can tell that I’m very wet.
Dante looks over my body silently. His face is so impassive that I can’t tell what he thinks. But his eyes are burning like two black coals.
“Turn around,” he orders.
Slowly, I turn until he’s behind me once more.
“Bend over,” he says.
I don’t understand why he’s doing this. I don’t know what he wants. This isn’t what I expected when I came to meet him. I thought we’d talk, or he might kiss me again.
Instead, I’m bending over to touch my toes, which is difficult to do in stilettos on the uneven ground.
It’s humiliating, exposing myself like this. What is he planning? What if he took a picture of me like this? I’d die of shame.
I can hear him move behind me, and I almost straighten up. I only hold this awful position because I’m more afraid to disobey him.
Dante kneels behind me.
He puts his face between my legs.
From behind, I feel his warm, wet tongue sliding up the length of my pussy.
It feels so good that my knees almost buckle. I only stay upright because his massive hands are gripping my hips.
Dante eats my pussy like he’s starving. He licks and sucks and shoves his tongue inside me. He licks me absolutely everywhere. It’s wet and intense, and absolutely fucking outrageous.
The vulnerability of my position and the intimacy of the places he’s putting his tongue is insane. I can’t believe I’m allowing it. But it feels too good to stop. I feel filthy and naughty, and I fucking love it.
As he’s fucking me with his tongue, he reaches around and rubs my clit with his hand.
Oh my god, I feel like I’ve been waiting years for him to do that again. I’ve been so pent up thinking about him that in seconds I can feel the climax building, the relentless headlong rush into that release that I feared I might never experience again.
Dante buries his face even deeper in my most delicate parts. He uses those thick, rough fingers to rub and press and coax me exactly where he wants me to go.
Bent over like this, my head is down by my ankles and all the blood is rushing to my brain. As I start to cum, I feel like I might be having an aneurysm. Fireworks are bursting behind my closed eyelids, and I have no idea if I’m crying out as loud as I did in my bedroom. God, I hope not.
The orgasm rips through me, even stronger than before. I collapse, only saved from tumbling over on the ground by Dante’s huge arms wrapped around me.
He holds me against his chest. I’m limp, and he’s as solid as an oak tree.
When I can see again, he helps me step into my dress. My underwear is gone, impossible to see in the dark.
“Did you like that?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I say, in my most proper tone. “It was very nice.”
Dante laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh—a deep rumble that vibrates in his chest.
“Do you want to go for a drive?” he asks me.
“I would love that.”
