There was something almost cruel about the way he could still smirk after hours of leaving you a trembling mess beneath him. Dante, with that glint in his eyes—mischievous, knowing—leaned over you like he hadn’t just pulled your soul apart and stitched it back together with every touch.

Breathless, your chest rose and fell as you tried to catch up, but there he was again. Still warm. Still pulsing with energy. Still looking at you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

Half-demon, yes—but in this moment, he was all yours. The raw power in him never scared you. It thrilled you. What did leave you breathless wasn’t just the stamina (though, unfair was an understatement)—it was the tenderness that followed.

He didn’t even have to speak. The way his hand found your face, brushing damp hair from your cheek; the way his thumb traced your lips like he was memorizing them all over again. He kissed your forehead, murmured something too soft to catch, and pulled you into his arms with care that felt sacred.

You had never felt safer than in the arms of the very devil that could tear the world apart—but chose to hold you gently instead.

And just when you thought the night had ended… that playful smirk returned. One brow raised, that cocky glint sparking again in his eyes.

He was ready. Again.

Of course he was.

Half-demon, after all.