The early dawn light pressed against the edges of New York, bleeding through the curtains of Dante's high-rise apartment. The skyline shimmered faintly with gold, skyscrapers standing like silent sentinels in the distance. Inside, the scent of roasted coffee beans and warm butter filled the air, threading through the sleek glass-and-steel apartment with a domestic softness that seemed completely at odds with the man who inhabited it.
Anastasia stirred in the massive bed, stretching under the cool linen sheets as the weight of last night's memories pressed against her skin. Her cheeks flushed crimson before she could stop herself—memories of Dante's mouth on hers, his hands on her body, his voice commanding and unyielding as he claimed . The duvet clung to her chest as if to shield her from the recollection, but it was useless. Her body remembered too vividly.
"Damn him," she muttered under her breath, though her lips curved at the memory of his smirk.
