6: Running Out of Time

Ava's POV

I woke up aching, but it wasn’t the kind of dull, fleeting soreness that could be ignored. It was deeper, more consuming—an unbearable hunger that coiled in the pit of my stomach, spreading heat through my veins like liquid fire. Every nerve in my body was tuned to a single, maddening frequency. A need I couldn’t satisfy.

Dante had done this.

He had played his game too well.

Too well.

I shifted beneath the silk sheets, pressing my thighs together in a desperate attempt for relief, but it was useless. He had left me like this—shaking, breathless, on the very edge of oblivion—and then he had walked away without giving me what I craved. Without breaking like I had.

I exhaled sharply, fingers curling into the sheets. If he thought he was going to win this game of control, if he believed for even a second that I would let him have the upper hand…

He was wrong.

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The Game Begins

I wasn’t going to let him get away with this.

Throwing back the covers, I climbed out of bed, my determination hardening into something sharp, something wicked. If Dante thought he could tease me, push me to the brink, and then walk away like I was nothing but a pawn in his game, he was about to learn the hard way that I knew how to play just as well.

I went to my closet and picked out the most sinful dress I owned—midnight-black satin, paper-thin straps, the fabric clinging to every inch of me like a second skin. No bra. No panties. Just the smooth glide of silk against bare flesh.

Let’s see how long he lasted.

I took my time walking to the kitchen, letting my hips sway, letting the cool morning air kiss my exposed skin. Dante was already there, standing by the counter, one hand resting casually on his tablet as he read something with an air of absolute control.

Too much control.

His black shirt was crisp, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the corded muscle of his forearms. He looked composed, unaffected. But I knew better.

I knew how to break him.

His eyes flicked up at the sound of my approach. He saw me. Really saw me. And for the briefest second, I caught it—the barely perceptible clench of his jaw, the way his grip on the tablet tightened just slightly.

Good.

I strolled past him, deliberately slow, my bare back fully exposed to him. I reached for the coffee pot, stretching just enough to make the hem of my dress shift dangerously high. I didn’t have to look at him to know he was watching.

I could feel it.

Heat.

Intensity.

A weighty, unspoken challenge passing between us like a live current.

I poured myself a cup and took a slow sip, leaning back against the counter as I waited for him to speak.

For him to crack first.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he placed his tablet down and straightened, his movements unhurried. Then he turned to me, stepping forward with that slow, lethal grace that made my pulse skip.

When he finally spoke, his voice was a blade wrapped in silk.

“Are you testing me, little one?”

I took another sip of coffee, my lips curving slightly. “I have no idea what you mean.”

He closed the distance between us in a breath. His fingers brushed my chin—soft at first, then firm, tilting my face up until I had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“You’re playing with fire,” he murmured.

I arched a brow, meeting his stare with unwavering defiance. “Then burn me.”

Something flickered in his dark eyes—something primal. Dangerous.

For a moment, I thought I had won.

Then he did something I wasn’t expecting.

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The New Rule

Dante let me go.

He stepped back, the heat of his touch vanishing too quickly, leaving me cold, unsatisfied.

But there was something else now. A shift in his demeanor. A quiet, dangerous amusement curling at the edges of his mouth.

“You want to play games?” His voice was low, dark, laced with something that sent a sharp thrill through me. “Fine. Let’s play.”

I frowned slightly. This wasn’t the reaction I wanted.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black velvet box. He flipped it open, revealing a delicate silver bracelet adorned with a single, intricate lock.

I stared at it, a knot forming in my stomach. “What is that?”

Dante smirked, slow and wicked. “A lesson in patience.”

Before I could react, he took my wrist and snapped the bracelet into place, the cool metal sending a shiver up my spine.

He traced his fingers lightly over the silver, his touch maddeningly soft.

“Until I decide otherwise,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, “you’re not allowed to touch yourself.”

My breath caught.

“What?”

His fingers trailed down my arm, ghosting over my collarbone, just barely brushing the curve of my breast before pulling away.

“You don’t get to seek release,” he said, his voice like a caress. “Not without my permission.”

A rush of heat pooled low in my stomach, my thighs pressing together instinctively. This wasn’t fair.

I lifted my chin, glaring at him. “And if I break your stupid rule?”

Dante’s smirk deepened, his eyes flashing with dark promise.

“Then I’ll punish you.”

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The First Test

The rest of the day was pure, exquisite torture.

Every movement was a reminder of what I couldn’t do. The satin of my dress brushed against bare skin, igniting sparks of pleasure that had nowhere to go. Every step sent a fresh wave of frustration through me, making me hyper-aware of my own body, of the throbbing ache that refused to fade.

And Dante knew it.

He touched me just enough to drive me insane—a brush of his fingers along my spine, a whisper of his breath against my neck as he leaned in to murmur something entirely unimportant. Every interaction was calculated, crafted to torment me.

By nightfall, I was on the verge of breaking.

I lay sprawled across the bed, my body tense, my fingers twitching against the sheets. I was so close to sneaking a hand between my thighs, to claiming the release he had denied me.

But before I could, the bedroom door creaked open.

Dante stood in the doorway, watching me like a predator watching its prey. He didn’t have to say anything. He knew.

His lips curled.

“Caught you.”

I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering as he stepped inside, the room shrinking with his presence.

He reached the edge of the bed, gazing down at me with a look that sent heat flooding through my veins.

Then, in a voice low, dark, and utterly commanding, he said—

“If you want pleasure, you’ll have to beg for it.”