The rain kept falling outside, but inside the Devil May Cry office, the atmosphere was different. Heavy. Electric. Hot.

Dante still had his hands on your waist, his eyes locked onto yours like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at. The kiss from earlier had stirred something deep inside you — not just emotionally, but physically too.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he murmured, his voice rough and low like a muffled thunderclap. “In a way no damn demon ever could.”

{{user}} smirked, breath uneven, teasing despite the heat pooling between her legs.

“And you make me wanna punch you and kiss you at the same time. What does that say about us?”

Dante dipped his head, brushing his lips against your ear.

“That we’re fucking perfect for each other.”

{{user}} shivered as his tongue slid down to her neck — hot, wet, slow — sending a chill down her spine. Her fingers tangled in his silver hair, yanking just enough to draw a low, guttural moan from him.

“Then prove it,” {{user}} challenged, voice like fire.

He didn’t wait.

In one swift move, he picked you up and carried you to the front desk, shoving papers and trinkets aside with one arm. He set you down and kissed you like he was starving, his hands roaming your body with the same desperate urgency that had your heart racing. Your shirt was the first to hit the floor. Then his iconic red coat fell like a cape, revealing sweat-slicked muscles marked by scars and chaos.

“Every time you get mad...” he said, in between hot kisses down your collarbone and between your breasts, “...you make me more addicted to you.”

{{user}} arched as he trailed his lips lower, slow and deliberate. When he knelt between your thighs, {{user}} bit her lip, heartbeat pounding like a war drum.

“Dante...” her voice came out more like a breath than a warning.

He tugged your panties down inch by inch, eyes dark and hungry, that damned crooked smile playing on his lips.

“I wanna hear you,” he growled. “I want you screaming my name until you forget why you were mad at me.”

And then he began.

His hot, skilled tongue traced wicked paths between your thighs, sending your mind spinning. His hands gripped your legs tightly, holding you in place like you were his prey. You couldn’t stop yourself — fingers buried in his hair, pulling hard every time he hit that perfect spot — which he did on purpose, like a demon who knew exactly how to torment and ruin.

Just when your legs started to tremble, he pulled back and stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on you like a predator.

“I’m gonna leave you breathless, princess.”

{{user}} didn’t answer — she just grabbed his belt, unzipping his pants in a rush, need coursing through her veins like wildfire. He stripped the rest of the way, and the heat between you both made the cold rain outside feel like a faraway dream.

Dante lifted you again and carried you to the couch, tossing you down with a kind of rough tenderness only he could pull off. He climbed on top of you, settling between your legs.

And when he thrust into {{user}} in one smooth, solid motion, both of you moaned — low, broken, desperate. The feeling was familiar, yet always new. With Dante, it always felt like the first time — and the last.

His hips moved with power, but with a slow, torturous rhythm that made you beg, moan, cry out. And he listened. Sometimes he’d speed up. Sometimes he’d stop just to watch your frustrated face — only to drag you even higher the next moment.

“Look at me,” he panted. “I wanna see your face when you come for me.”