Page 172 of Dante
I don't answer her question.
Instead, I move.
Close the distance between us.
Cup her face in my hands.
And kiss her.
She gasps against my mouth.
Her hands come up—to push me away or pull me closer, I don't know—and then they're fisting in my shirt, dragging me toward her.
I deepen the kiss.
Taste her.
Coffee and sleep and something sweet underneath.
Marina moans.
The sound goes straight through me.
Straight to my cock.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are dark. Her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths.
"That's not an answer," she whispers.
"I know."
"You can't just kiss me every time you don't want to talk."
"I know."
"Dante—"
I kiss her again.
Harder this time.
More demanding.
She moans again, louder, and her fingers dig into my shoulders. I push her back against the pillows, careful of my wound, covering her body with mine.
Her legs part.
I settle between them.
The heat of her burns through the thin fabric separating us.
"This isn't fair," she breathes against my mouth.
"I know."
"You're avoiding the question."
"I know."
