Dance with the Devil: Chapter 19

I hardly come up for air over the next week. Despite my protests, Dante insists that I take the week off after working overtime in San Francisco. He doesn’t allow me to lift a finger, either, unless it’s to make baby blankets. It’s a stark contrast to never having time off before, and always feeling like I had to be on call for him.

Our days are spent in bed, only getting up to eat and drink water. He can’t cancel all of his appointments, especially the standing appointments with his most vulnerable patients, so he honors those and takes them from my closed-off dining room.

In the evenings, we sit on the couch while I read and he catches up on client emails. He rubs my feet and asks about the books I’m reading. We drink wine and order takeout, but some nights he also cooks me healthy meals full of leafy greens and protein. I know exactly what he’s doing, and I hate to admit that I love it.

He doesn’t sleepwalk at all, and I haven’t seen him take any pills.

I also haven’t gotten the courage to ask him about it.

The way he looks at me sometimes… it terrifies me. The dark possession that rolls off him sends shivers down my spine. The look on his face when he sinks into me first thing in the morning is intense enough to give me a complex. When we’re not in bed, eating, or working, we’re talking. I learn about his childhood. His friends—he doesn’t appreciate it when I tell him with a straight face that demons don’t usually have friends. We stay up until two in the morning telling each other everything. It’s a lot, and despite being the happiest I’ve ever been, the intensity with which everything happened makes my head spin.

Once I gave him permission to claim me, he stopped holding back.

That meant more smiling. More laughing. His face is more relaxed than ever, and despite still being a grump, he’s happy around me.

I tell myself it’s too soon to fall in love.

It’s too soon to have these big feelings.

I hardly know him—which is weird to think, considering I spent more time with him than anyone else for the last two years, at least online. I read back through our emails and chats. I look for any hidden clues that he’d felt like this with me for so long. There’s no affection in the text, but the possession is there. It’s always been there.

I’d like for you to check in with me every morning.

Don’t stay up too late working.

Please call me as soon as you can.

When I’d suggested hiring a local guy as a second assistant last year, since I was always so busy, he immediately shot it down, and rereading it now—in hindsight—is hilarious.

I do not have time to train anyone else, and I do not want you taking the time out of your workday to do so.

I tease him about it, and his usual response is to push me back onto the couch and remind me that he’s still my boss, and that he doesn’t appreciate being made fun of—all the while sliding between my legs.

Being with him feels like a marathon—swift and extreme. Sudden. Life-changing.

While he’s working a week after we return from San Francisco, I sneak out and walk to the drug store down the street. Popping into a nearby coffee shop, I pee on a stick, confirming what I already suspected. My period is a day late, and I cried big, blubbering tears when the serial killer from my last book got sentenced to death in the epilogue.

As the word ‘Pregnant’ appears on the digital test, I gauge my reaction, but I know by my private smile how I really feel. Excited. Nervous. Anxious. Happy.

The sun is shining as I walk back to my house. I have no idea how I’m going to tell Dante. I don’t think either of us expected it to work on the first try. I’m still waiting for him to tell me it’s all a joke and that this whole breeding kink he has going on is just for fun. I stop in front of my front door as reality hits me.

I’m pregnant.

With my boss’s baby.

Holy fuck.

Just as I reach out for the handle, Dante pulls my door open. “I’m not going to be one of those guys who needs to know where you are at all times. You’re a big girl. But a text would be nice, so I know you’re not dying in a ditch,” he says through his teeth.

I try not to laugh. Spending the week with me has him looking slightly more disheveled than usual. His hair is a bit wild since he ran out of whatever product he used in San Francisco. His shirts are almost always wrinkled because I don’t own an ironing board, nor does he put in the effort to get them dry-cleaned. His shirt is untucked, and he’s barefoot. His beard is a little longer than normal, too.

And maybe it’s the hormones, but I love this version of him. The unkempt version. The one that makes love to me for hours and makes sure I don’t have to vacuum my own bedroom, because he prefers to do it himself. The one who constantly has to be touching me, despite his prickly demeanor. The snuggler who stays wrapped around me all night long. The version of him that laughs, drinks, and smiles like he won the lottery every time I tell a bad joke.

It’s all too good to be true, right?

I swallow the emotion clawing up my throat, taking a deep breath as I try and steady my shaking hands.

“I’m pregnant.”

His expression morphs from irritation to confusion, and then⁠—

He grabs me and pulls me into his body, wrapping his arms around me. “I fucking knew it.” He’s so… warm. Constantly. He’s like a solid, hot mass of emotional tranquility, and I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve him. That thought makes me choke out a sob, and then he’s pulling away and staring into my eyes.

“Talk to me, Frankie. How are you feeling about it?”

God—he’s so—so⁠—

“I think I love you,” I whisper as tears track down my face. “It hit me just now—with you worried about me being gone, and your stupid, stained shirt,” I say between tears. His stricken face only makes me cry harder. “You’re such a fucking psycho, but I must be one too because I think everything you do is incredibly—r-romantic, and the emails—you—you always emailed me first thing in the morning, like I was your first thought of the d-day⁠—”

He reaches out and tracks a thumb across my cheek, smiling. “Because you were. Still are.”

I laugh-cry and collapse back into his arms. “We still haven’t talked about how you b-booked all the rooms so we had to share one,” I hiccup. “Fucking psycho behavior.”

“We still haven’t talked about how you pretended to be asleep,” he murmurs. There’s no ire in his voice—no ice or coldness. Just amusement.

“Touché.”

“Come on. You haven’t eaten lunch. I made you a sandwich, but you can’t have that now.”

I pull out of his grip. “What? Why?”

His lips twitch. “You shouldn’t eat deli meat when you’re pregnant.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I’ve been reading.”

My mouth drops open before I snap it closed. “You’ve been reading?!”

Putting his hands in the pockets of his pants, he rocks back on his heels and gives me a conspiratorial smile.

“Casual reading. No big deal.”

A surprise laugh escapes my lips. “Let me see the book.”

He takes a step backward. “It’s in the bedroom.”

Taking a step forward, I cross my arms. “Show me.”

He turns and walks into the house. I follow him until he stops at his bedside table, pulling one of the drawers out and producing a thick medical textbook about pregnancy.

“How long have you had that?” I ask, trying not to smile.

“Since San Francisco. There are certain studies that have been done on very early pregnancy and I wanted to be informed⁠—”

I jump into his arms and the book falls onto the floor. He catches my thighs and moans when I press my lips against his, when I run my fingers through his soft hair, when I take my hands and place them on either side of his scruff.

“Don’t think we’re not going to talk about the way you said you loved me,” he murmurs.

“Whatever,” I rasp, rolling my hips when I feel his erection push through his pants and my leggings.

“You said it first,” he adds, a victorious smile brushing against my lips. “I’m never going to let you live that down.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’ve been saying it in your sleep.”

He pulls back and looks at me. “Have I?”

I twist my lips to the side. “A couple of times.”

“It doesn’t count if I’m not conscious,” he murmurs, softly pecking my lips with his.

“Is that what you told yourself the other week? That it didn’t count because you weren’t awake?”

My tone is teasing, but he pulls his face away again and looks down at me. “At first. But as the days went on,” he starts, brushing his thumb across my lower lip, “I realized that I’d never get to experience what it would feel like the first time I sank deep into your cunt. I’d never get to see your face the first time you came on my cock. I’ll never know how fucking good it must’ve felt as I came inside of you after waiting to do it for two years. So yes. Maybe I did tell myself that at first, but now I wish I’d been fully conscious. Fully awake.” His eyes drag down to my lips. “I don’t want to regret saying it in my sleep or missing out. I love you, Frankie.”

My lips purse with satisfaction. “I never thought I’d say this, but I actually think I prefer the way you say ‘Francesca.’”

He rolls his eyes before capturing my lips with his again. “So fucking infuriating,” he murmurs, carrying me over to the bed. Gently lowering me onto the mattress, he unwraps my legs from his waist as he looks down at me. “Are you feeling okay? Nausea, headache, fatigue? Do you need anything? Water, juice, coffee—but not too much⁠—”

“I’m okay.”

I expected a possessive Dante, but I did not expect a doting Dante. Somehow, knowing this is the same serious man I used to hate three weeks ago only makes it even more strange.

He must sense my hesitation, because he smirks before dropping to his knees on the side of the bed.

“What are you⁠—”

He grabs my ankles and slowly begins to remove my leggings. He doesn’t break eye contact as he drags the fabric down my hips, tugging them until they’re discarded off to the side somewhere. Hooking one finger around my underwear, he removes those too—every brush of his fingers against my skin sends goosebumps down my legs. When I’m completely bare to him, he leans forward. I expect him to use his tongue, but instead, he places a kiss on my lower stomach.

I swallow thickly, unsure if I’m going to cry again. My lower lip quivers as he places another kiss against my skin, and then he lays his head down softly on top of me, facing me and watching me with such reverence that it makes my heart skip a beat. I start to breathe heavily, unsure if I’m capable of getting enough oxygen. His expression is so adoring—like he’d worship me as his goddess if he could.

It’s intimate, and real.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Just thinking about the fact that you’re pregnant,” he murmurs, smiling.

It’s his real smile—wide, bright, joyful.

“It’s all your fault,” I taunt.

“I know.” He sighs. “I guess I’ll have to move in now. Officially.”

I sit up quickly, using my elbows to look down at him. “What?!”

“My realtor is ready to list my house whenever I give the go-ahead.”

“Your… realtor?”

Something dark and tender all at once passes behind his eyes. “Yes, Francesca. I contacted a realtor while I was still in San Francisco, just in case.”

“But your clients⁠—”

“I’ve slowly been transferring the paying clients over to various colleagues. I have no doubt that they’ll be in good hands. As for my pro bono clients, I can fly up to Santa Barbara to see them twice a month. My new office space isn’t far from my house.”

My mouth drops open. “Your new office space?”

He smirks and lifts his head, resting his chin against my pubic bone and taking my hands in his.

“Yeah.”

“What about your stuff? Your house is massive, and I don’t have any space here⁠—”

“We can put it in storage for the time being. If we decide we need a bigger house, we can pick from my things first. Or, we can buy all new things that fit our life.”

I roll my eyes. “You love throwing money around, don’t you?”

“I have a lot of it.”

“Rub it in,” I grouse, shaking my head.

“Half of it will be yours one day.”

I lift my hand and rest it on top of his soft hair. “I don’t want your money.”

“I’m not going to make you sign a prenup, so you’ll have no choice.”

My hand stills. “You’re talking like we’re already engaged.”

His eyes narrow. “Can you blame me?”

“I don’t recall you ever asking me.”

“Do you want me to ask you?”

“Stop being a psycho. Of course not.” The minute the words leave my lips, I regret saying them. His expression falters just for a second, but it’s enough to make my chest ache. “One day. I do want that one day. Today has just been…”

“A lot?” he finishes, smiling. “Let me take your mind off things, baby girl.”