by Ember Casey
What was I thinking, drawing out this date? I should have called it a night when I knew this wasn’t going anywhere. But Dean is a nice guy—and I’m not going to be a bitch. I’ll drink my wine, make polite conversation, and part with him on kind terms.
I stay tucked against the window. Though there’s a clear line of sight between me and the two Fontaine brothers at the bar, I feel safer against the glass, a little more out of sight. The wine disappears little by little. The conversation continues, as pleasant and uninspiring as ever. The two men at the bar order drinks and don’t turn around. A few of the other patrons seem to have recognized them, but for the most part, they’re left alone.
“This is the last of it,” Dean says, emptying the rest of the bottle into my glass.
Thank God. “Cheers.”
We clink glasses. Almost free. I’m going to make it. The next sip of wine is sweeter than all of the others put together.
But when I lower my glass, the back of my neck prickles. I know why even before I glance back at the bar. Dante has partially turned around on his stool, and his eyes are locked on me.
I raise my glass again, blocking my face, but I know it’s too late. He’s seen me. Recognized me. And if I know Dante, he’s not going to just let me walk out of here.
When I lower my glass again, he’s already halfway across the room. My breath quickens. How the hell am I going to get out of this—roundhouse kick him in the chest and make a mad dash for the exit while he’s still stunned? Unfortunately, the state of my ankle pretty much guarantees I’ll wipe out before I even reach the door.
And then he’s right at the table, and there’s no more time to plan my escape.
“Ashlyn,” he says, and something about his voice makes me feel like a mouse who’s been cornered by a snake. “What a surprise to see you here.”
“Well, they tell me I have to leave the bakery sometimes,” I say with a strained laugh.
“Mm.” His eyes drift over to Dean. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
He’s not going to let me wrangle my way out of this easily. I force a smile.
“This is Dean,” I say. “Dean, this is—”
“Dante,” our unexpected company cuts in. “Dante Fontaine.” Even if he intended to keep his identity quiet tonight, he’s willing to give it up now. He holds his hand out to Dean, who looks a little stunned as he takes it. It’s the first emotion I’ve seen on his face all night.
“And what brings you two out here tonight?” Dante asks. His eyes are on me again, burning into me, but his expression is perfectly controlled.
He’s not an idiot. I’m with a guy who’s not my “boyfriend” on what is very obviously a date. If my clothes and makeup don’t give it away, the empty bottle of wine between us certainly does. Now he’s just trying to get me to admit it out loud.
Which I won’t, of course.
“We were just enjoying a bottle of wine,” I say.
That obviously doesn’t satisfy him. “How do you two know each other?”
“A mutual friend.” I’m more annoyed by the second. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Dean glancing between the two of us, obviously trying to figure out what’s going on.
“And how’s Jack?” Dante asks.
“That’s none of your business, either.” I can’t keep the bite from my tone. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we were in the middle of a conversation.”
“And now we are in the middle of a conversation. Is this really how you treat an old friend?”
Dean stands up, and relief rushes through me. The two of us working together might actually manage to chase Dante away.
But instead, my perfectly pleasant date looks between us once more before saying, “It sounds like you two have something to discuss. I’m going to hit the restroom.”
No! Don’t leave me alone with him! I want to shout. But doing so would only be admitting weakness.
The moment Dean steps away, Dante moves to slide into his vacated seat.
“Don’t you dare sit down,” I say.
He ignores me. Instead, he props his forearms on the table and laces his fingers, looking across at me with an expression I’m having trouble reading. There’s a wrinkle in his brow and the slightest hint of a frown on his lips, but his eyes have taken on that carefully blank look that makes him feel like a stranger.
“What happened to Jack?” he asks after a moment.
“As I said, that’s none of your business.” I’m in a pickle now—do I pretend we broke up? Or do I insist that everything is fine and that Dean is just a friend? Neither option is likely to win me points in this battle. And both just continue a web of lies that is getting stickier and more complicated by the second.
Easier to just avoid this conversation altogether.
“Isn’t your brother waiting for you?” I say, gesturing toward the bar.
“Luca’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”
“Have you told him about you and Emilia yet?”
An exasperated expression flickers across his face, but he regains control of himself quickly. “It wouldn’t matter to him if he knew. As I’ve told you, it meant nothing.”
“Sex never means nothing,” I insist. “Well, at least to me.” My cheeks blaze as I slide out of my chair. “Since you won’t get the hint and leave, I think that’s my cue to do so.”
I think that shocks him—at least, it takes him a moment to get up out of his chair and come after me, even considering the limitations my ankle puts on a quick getaway. I’m at the door before I hear him behind me, but I don’t look back as I step outside. I don’t know what my plan is—Dean drove me here, and it’s not like I can walk home—but I’ll worry about that later. Dante lets me get twenty feet down the street before he catches me. He steps right in front of me, forcing me to stop.
“Not this time,” he says.
“What the hell does that mean? Not what time?”
He moves forward, and I step back—right against the side of the bar. The bricks scratch against the backs of my arms as he looms over me. But he doesn’t touch me.
“I’m not letting you walk away this time,” he says, and there’s a rough edge to his voice that makes my stomach flip-flop. The blank look he wore in the restaurant is gone, replaced by a fire that threatens to engulf me.
“Maybe you should,” I counter, and my voice sounds as ragged as his. “Did you ever think of that?”
“Yes.” He places a hand against the bricks on one side of my head. “A hundred times.”
My heart is tumbling over itself. “Then why don’t you?” Why are you still here, making this even harder on me?
His other hand comes up on the other side of me, effectively pinning me against the wall. But he still doesn’t touch me, even as he leans closer. He’s so close I can feel his breath on my face.
“I’ve never stopped regretting the last time I let you walk away from me,” he murmurs.
I can’t breathe. But I can’t escape from him, either—not from his arms or his words or that look in his eyes.
“What happened to Jack?” he asks, his voice lower with every word. “Tell me, Ash.”
I don’t know what to say. Part of me wants to continue the lie, to hold on to the one last protective barrier I have between myself and this man. Another part of me wants to spill everything, to tell him the whole truth from beginning to end.
“Tell me,” he repeats, and this time it sounds less like an order and almost like… begging. When I still can’t find any words, he goes on. “Tell me you love him, Ashlyn. That he’s the one you want in your bed at night. The one you want fucking you. The one whose name you want to cry out when you’re coming. The one whose arms you want around you every morning. Tell me you want him and no one else.”
Looking into his eyes—seeing the hunger, the desperation, the vulnerability—I’m finding it impossible to say anything at all.
Tell him! my mind screams. Tell him you love Jack! That you’re still in a relationship! Tell him anything! But I don’t. I can’t. I won’t.
And Dante doesn’t ask me again. Before I can make myself act—or speak, or even think—his lips are on mine.
In an instant, everything changes. My fear and confusion and even my anger fade away beneath a flood of pleasure, replaced by a hunger so intense, and so sudden, that I have no choice but to submit to it. His lips are a spark that set my whole body on fire, and as that blaze consumes me, nothing else matters.
My mouth opens beneath his, inviting him in. He responds instantly, his tongue slipping between my lips as he presses against me, pushing me right back against the wall. I grab his shirt at the waist, clutching it in my fists as sensation sweeps through me.
I was starving for this. The longing has always been there—and I knew it was there, even when I tried to ignore it. Now that it’s been acknowledged, now that it’s free, it’s a force that threatens to undo me completely. Dante’s lips, his breath, his tongue… they’re the sweetest things I’ve ever tasted, and at the same time, the most dangerous. Because I’m not myself anymore. I’m just a slave to the energy that crackles between us.
Dante drops his hands from the wall to my sides. His fingers run up and down my body—feeling me, remembering me, then drawing me closer. His tongue pushes deeper into my mouth, and his leg presses between mine. I moan against his lips as his thigh rubs against me. The thin material of my dress is little protection from that exquisite friction.
Was it ever like this? It was always intense, overwhelming—a feast of passion and sensation. But there’s something new here, something infinitely more terrifying. I’ve lost control of myself. It’s like I’ve been possessed. And Dante, too—he can’t mean to continue this here. Can’t mean to take me up against the side of a bar.
He moves his leg, shifting it right against the ache between my thighs, right where all of these sensations threaten to spill over. The sound I make this time is less like a moan and more like a sob, and that seems to spur him on. He tears his lips away from mine and starts kissing my jaw, my throat, my ear. I tilt my head back against the bricks, lost in the feeling. It’s been so long since I’ve felt his lips on my skin. His hands on my breasts. His breath in my hair. So long since I’ve experienced the thrill of his body up against mine or marveled at how we fit together in such a strange and wonderful way. I know I don’t have much experience, but I can’t imagine it would be like this with just anyone. This is… This is…
“Wrong,” I whisper, coming back to myself for a minute. What am I doing? Why am I letting myself fall into this trap again? The pain of walking away from him once was hard enough. How am I going to find the strength to do it a second time?
Because in spite of everything, I know deep down that there will be a second time.
“This is wrong,” I say again, a little louder this time. I release his shirt and press against his shoulders. “Dante, we can’t do this.”
He goes rigid, his mouth still right against my ear. For a moment, he says nothing. And then, “Why?”
When his lips move, they brush against my skin, and a tremor moves through me. He must feel it, too, because he nuzzles my hair.
“Why is it wrong?” he murmurs. “It feels like quite the opposite to me.” I hear a smile in his voice. “And I made you forget, didn’t I?”
“Forget what?”
“Don’t you mean who?” His thumbs brush against my stomach through the fabric of my dress, and his leg hasn’t moved away from that sensitive bud between my legs.
I want to stay here in his arms, to give in to the living, pulsing need that still vibrates between us. To explore this desire another time, to see how it’s changed in the time we were apart. To give my body the pleasure it’s been missing.
Which is why I need to leave now.
I wriggle out of his arms, then limp several feet away before daring to turn and look at him. My entire body feels flushed, and my dress suddenly feels too tight around my chest. If I’m not careful, I’m going to hyperventilate.
“I can’t go through this again,” I say firmly—as much to myself as to him.
Dante, for once, looks almost disheveled. But his eyes are bright as he straightens and steps toward me.
“Are you sure about that?” he asks.
No. But I can’t let him see that.
“Go on,” he says calmly, but there’s a wolfish look in his eye that I don’t trust. “Go back to your date. But this isn’t over, Ash. I’ve already told you that I don’t plan on making the same mistake a second time. This time, there’s no walking away from this. And we both know it.”
CHAPTER SIX
“How did it go?” Mama Pat asks.
It’s two days after my date with Dean—the first time Mama Pat is working since that dramatic evening—and she’s nearly bursting as she pulls out her ingredients for a batch of strawberry cupcakes. I’m guessing from her grin that she hasn’t spoken to Dean yet.
“He’s very nice,” I say. “And you were right—he’s really cute.”
Her eyebrow rises. She knows me too well. “But?”
“But there wasn’t any chemistry,” I say, then add, “Sadly. Because he seems like a sweet guy.” I still feel a twinge—okay, more than a twinge—of guilt over how I handled things. Because even though I know Dean and I don’t have a future, he still deserved better. I still have no idea if he guessed what happened between Dante and me against the side of the bar—he didn’t ask where I’d been when I returned to the table, and he didn’t ask about Dante at all—but it was clear he knew that there was no point in dragging things out any longer. When he dropped me off at my house, he simply said, as pleasantly as ever, “Thank you for the nice evening. I think our interests might lie in separate directions, but I wish you the best.”
There’d been no anger in his voice, no resentment—which made me feel worse because I definitely deserved a little of both.
How the hell did I let things get to this point with Dante?
I’ve tossed and turned in bed the two nights since, trying to forget about that kiss. And the things Dante said before and after. His words still ring in my head: I’ve never stopped regretting the last time I let you walk away from me.
How am I supposed to interpret that? That he wishes we’d never broken up? If he feels that way, then why did he wait until now to tell me? He’s had plenty of time to do it.
“Ash?” Mama Pat says.
I realize she’s asked me a question. “I’m sorry—what were you saying?”
“Did you want to try the new buttercream recipe with these?”
“Sure.”
For a moment, we work in silence. I keep thinking about the things Dante has said to me over the past two weeks. He says there’s no denying this. No pretending that there’s nothing between us. And as much as I hate to admit it… he’s right. That kiss was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Even now, just thinking about it, my body begins to respond—my skin going hot, my nipples hardening against my bra, my tongue feeling suddenly thick and dry. There’s a dull but insistent ache growing between my legs as I remember the way his lips tasted. The way his fingers dug into my sides. The way his thigh pressed in deliberate torture against the most sensitive part of my body…
A shiver courses through me—part arousal, part fear. My stomach is tight and my heart pounds as I feel the last of my defenses crumbling away. I’ve tried everything to protect myself from this man, from the way he makes me feel. There won’t be a happy ending to this. But I can’t help myself. He’s right—I still want him. Still need him. Still crave him with every part of myself, body and soul. I’m about to have my heart broken all over again because I’m too weak to control my emotions.
The kitchen phone rings. Karen and Jilly only send calls back he
re if they’re ones I need to handle personally—supply vendors, wedding clients, and the like—so I wipe my hands on my apron and grab it.
“Hello?” I say. “Ashlyn speaking. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to schedule a tasting.”
My pulse quickens at the sound of that voice.
“Dante,” I say, lowering my voice and turning my back to make it harder for Mama Pat to overhear our conversation. “Why are you calling here?”
“Just as I said—to arrange a tasting. You did offer during the original cake consultation.”
“I most definitely did not offer. You seemed happy enough to leave the flavor selection up to me. In fact, you didn’t seem to have much interest in the cake at all. I assumed you weren’t being serious.”
“I assure you, Ash, I was very serious. And I’m serious now.”
I don’t know what to do. Or what I want to do. But the smart thing would be to get him out of my life as soon as possible.
“Look, Dante—I think you should find another bakery to make this cake.”
“I don’t want another bakery to make it. I want you.” He pauses as if to let the full meaning of that last part sink in for me. “I’ll make sure pictures of this cake end up everywhere, Ash.”
“I don’t need your charity.” I’ve already seen a healthy jump in business since photos of the cake from the Cataclysm: Earth party went public, but I don’t want any favors from Dante. I don’t want to owe him anything or let him have any more sway over me than he already does.
“Then I’ll make sure it doesn’t end up in any photos at all, if that’s what you’d prefer,” he says, not missing a beat. “But I still want the cake.”
He’s not going to back down easily, that’s for damn sure—and I don’t know how to get out of this without embarrassing myself further. I did take down his order—but mostly because I assumed he’d never follow up on it, that it was just a ploy to get me to talk to him that first day.
“Fine,” I say. “Let’s schedule a tasting.” I’ll just get Mama Pat to cover the appointment. “When can you come in?”