Sold to the Devil's Heir

The private café on the 47th floor of Voss Tower was all smoked glass and Italian leather, the kind of place where deals were made and futures were destroyed over single-origin espresso. Dante Voss lounged in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, his posture screaming indifference even as his father's voice grated against his nerves like sandpaper.

"I don't understand why I have to be the one to clean up your mess," Dante drawled, swirling his espresso. "You're the one who ran the company into the ground. Why should I pay for your mistakes with my freedom?"

His father, Richard Voss, was a man carved from ice and ambition. His silver hair was swept back, his suit immaculate, his eyes as cold as the Arctic. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

"Listen to me very carefully, you spoiled little shit. The board doesn't trust you. They've seen the tabloids. The models. The actresses. The scandals. They think you're nothing but a cock with a trust fund, and they're threatening to pull their shares if I hand the company over to you."

Dante's jaw tightened. "So?"

"So, you need to prove you're a responsible man. A family man. Someone they can trust with their investments. The only way to do that is to get married. Settle down. Show them you can keep your dick in your pants long enough to sign a contract."

"A contract," Dante repeated flatly. "You want me to marry a fucking contract."

"I want you to marry Elara Cross."

Dante's finger froze on the rim of his cup. "Who?"

"Her father owes me. A lot. He can't pay, so he's offering his daughter instead. It's a win-win. You get a wife, I get my money, and the board gets their 'responsible' CEO."

"You're selling me a woman to pay a debt?"

"Don't be dramatic. You've been fucking women for free your whole life. This one comes with a company attached."

Dante opened his mouth to argue, but the café door swung open, and every thought in his head evaporated.

She walked in like a storm in heels.

Her hair was a cascade of chestnut waves, tumbling over bare shoulders that gleamed under the soft lighting. Her skin was the color of warm honey, glowing with an almost ethereal radiance. She wore a cream-colored blouse with a deep V-neck that plunged dangerously low, showcasing the generous swell of her breasts-full, round, straining against the fabric like they were begging to be freed. Her waist was impossibly tiny, curving into hips that flared like an hourglass, hugged by a pencil skirt that ended just above her knees.

Her legs were long, toned, encased in sheer nude stockings that caught the light with every step. Her face was a work of art-full lips painted a soft rose, high cheekbones, a delicate nose, and eyes the color of whiskey, blazing with barely contained fury.

Dante forgot how to breathe.

His fingers tightened around his cup, knuckles white. He watched her walk toward the table, and his cock stirred in his trousers like it recognized a predator approaching. This wasn't just a woman. This was a goddess sent to destroy him.

She was exactly the kind of woman he fucked-no, worshipped. The kind who graced magazine covers and had men begging at her feet. He'd bedded actresses and supermodels, but none of them had ever made his mouth go dry with a single glance.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He forced his gaze down to the contract on the table, trying to focus on the words. But his eyes kept drifting back to her cleavage, the way her breasts pressed together, the shadow of her cleavage promising heaven and damnation in equal measure. He wanted to reach out, cup them, feel their weight in his palms, taste the sweat between them.

His father cleared his throat. "Dante. Focus."

"I am focused," Dante muttered, though his eyes were still locked on her chest.

Elara slid into the chair across from him, her movements sharp, angry. She didn't look at him-not once. She pulled the contract toward herself, snatched a pen from the table, and began signing without reading a single word.

Her fury radiated off her in waves.

She hated him. He could see it in the set of her jaw, the tremble in her hand as she scrawled her name. She thought he was a monster. A predator. A man who would use her and discard her like all the others.

She wasn't wrong.

But as she leaned forward to sign the last page, her blouse gaped open, and Dante caught a glimpse of the valley between her breasts, the subtle shadow of her cleavage. His cock thickened, straining against his trousers.

Control yourself, he snarled internally. You're not a teenage boy.

But his body didn't care about control. His body wanted to bend her over this table and bury himself in her until she screamed his name.

Elara signed the final page with a flourish, then dropped the pen like it had burned her. She still hadn't looked at him.

"Excellent," Richard Voss said, his voice oily with satisfaction. "The wedding is tomorrow."

Both Dante and Elara's heads snapped up.

"What?" Dante's voice was sharp, incredulous. "Tomorrow? We haven't even-"

"The ceremony has been prepared for weeks," Richard said smoothly. "The venue, the guests, the flowers. Everything is ready. You two just need to show up and say 'I do.'"

Elara's face went pale, then flushed with rage. Her hands clenched into fists on the table. She looked like she wanted to strangle someone-preferably her father, preferably Dante.

Her father, a small, weaselly man named Harold Cross, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He'd been silent the entire time, too cowardly to meet his daughter's eyes.

"Dad," Elara said through gritted teeth. "You planned this?"

"We need the money," Harold muttered, refusing to look at her. "It's just a marriage, Elara. It doesn't have to mean anything."

"It means everything," she snapped. "You sold me. You sold me to pay your debts."

Dante watched the exchange, his earlier lust cooling into something darker. Interest. This woman had fire. She wasn't a meek little trophy wife who would smile and nod and spread her legs on command.

She was a wildfire in stilettos.

Richard Voss stood, smoothing his tie. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted. Congratulations, Dante. Welcome to the family, Elara."

He walked out, followed by Elara's father, who practically scurried after him like a kicked dog.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Dante leaned back in his chair, his eyes raking over Elara's body with deliberate slowness. Her chest was heaving with barely suppressed rage. A bead of sweat trickled down her throat, disappearing into her cleavage.

Fuck.

"You must be thrilled," Elara said, her voice dripping with venom. "A new sex toy to play with whenever you get bored of your models."

Dante's lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. "Honey, you're not even in the same league as the women I fuck."

Her eyes narrowed. "Then why did you just stare at my chest for the entire meeting?"

His smile faltered. He hadn't realized he was that obvious.

"I was looking at the contract," he lied.

"No, you weren't." She leaned forward, and her blouse gaped even more, revealing the lacy edge of her bra. "You were imagining what it would feel like to bury your face between them. Admit it. You're just like every other man who's ever looked at me."

Dante's control snapped.

He lunged across the table, grabbed her wrist, and yanked her out of her chair. She stumbled into his chest, and he backed her against the table, pinning her with his hips.

"You want to know what I was imagining?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I was imagining bending you over this table, lifting that skirt, and fucking you until you forgot your own name."

Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened, but she didn't pull away.

"Then do it," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Fuck. She wants this.

But the rational part of Dante's brain screamed at him to stop. This was a business arrangement. His father's company. His inheritance. He couldn't afford to fuck this up.

But the feel of her body pressed against him, the heat of her skin, the scent of her perfume-something floral and sweet-was driving him out of his mind.

"Say it again," he rasped. "Tell me you want me."

"I'll never want you," she spat. "You're a monster."

"Then why are you leaning into me?" he asked, his lips brushing her ear. "Why is your pulse racing?"

She shook her head, but her body betrayed her. Her hips rocked forward, grinding against the bulge in his trousers. A small, desperate sound escaped her throat.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let yourself feel it. Let your body tell me the truth."

He caught her mouth in a brutal kiss, bruising and demanding. Her lips parted beneath his, and he tasted her-sweet, warm, addictive. He shoved his tongue inside her mouth, claiming her, devouring her.

Her hands came up to push him away, but they fisted in his shirt instead, clinging to him like a lifeline.

He pulled back, breathing hard. "You want me," he said, his voice rough with triumph. "Admit it."

"I want to kill you," she breathed.

"Same thing."

Dante spun her around and bent her over the mahogany table.

The contract scattered across the polished wood. Her palms flattened against the surface as his hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pinning her in place. His other hand hiked her skirt up over her hips, bunching the fabric around her waist.

She wore stockings-sheer nude, held up by a garter belt that made his mouth water. Her underwear was a scrap of white lace, already soaked through, the evidence of her arousal darkening the fabric.

He traced his fingers over the damp patch, and she shivered.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with dark amusement. "So wet for a man you claim to hate."

"I don't-"

He shoved her underwear aside and sank two fingers inside her. She gasped, her hips jerking forward, her cunt clenching around his invasion. He pumped slowly, watching her body respond, watching her surrender to pleasure she didn't want to feel.

"Liar," he said softly. "Your body has never lied to me. Not once."

He crooked his fingers, hitting that spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids. She cried out, her knees buckling. He caught her with his other hand, holding her upright.

"Please," she gasped, not even sure what she was begging for.

"Please what?" he asked, withdrawing his fingers. He brought them to his mouth and tasted her. Sweet. Clean. Addictive. "Please stop? Or please keep going?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't.

He unzipped his trousers. The thick head of his cock pressed against her soaked entrance, and she trembled. He teased her-sliding the length of him through her slick folds, coating himself in her wetness.

"You're going to take every inch," he warned. "And you're going to come for me. You won't have a choice."

He pushed inside her.

She was so tight, so wet, that he groaned aloud as he sank into her heat. Her walls clenched around him like a fist, trying to expel him, but he didn't stop. He filled her completely, his hips flush against her ass, buried to the hilt.

"Fuck," she breathed.

He withdrew slowly, deliberately, until only the tip remained. Then he slammed back inside her, driving the air from her lungs.

"Feel that?" he growled, his hips slapping against her with each brutal stroke. "Feel how deep I am? You're mine now, Elara. Every inch of you."

Her fingers clawed at the table. She was so wet, so slick, that the sound of him fucking her filled the room-wet, obscene, unmistakable.

"I hate you," she whimpered, even as her hips rocked back to meet his thrusts.

"No, you don't." He reached around and found her clit, rubbing in tight, furious circles. "Your cunt loves me. Your body wants me. Say it."

"I-" She was so close. So fucking close. "I-"

"Say it," he demanded, increasing his pace. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," she sobbed. "I'm yours, Dante."

He came.

Spilled deep inside her as her orgasm ripped through her, clenching around his cock, milking every drop. He fucked her through it, prolonging the pulses, until she was trembling and gasping.

Third time. He'd felt the urge to come the first two times, but he'd held back. He needed to be in control. To prove to himself that she didn't matter.

But she did.

That was the terrifying part.

He pulled out of her slowly. Her arousal dripped down her thighs, mixed with his release. She was still bent over the table, her cheek pressed to the wood, her breathing ragged.

He tucked himself back into his trousers and stepped away from her.

"That," he said coolly, "was me checking the goods I bought. Don't make the mistake of thinking you're special. You're not. You're just a debt I had to settle."

She flinched.

Something in his chest twisted. He ignored it.

He strode toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle.

"The wedding is tomorrow," he said without turning around. "Be ready. And Elara?"

She lifted her head, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

"You taste like heaven," he admitted, his voice almost soft. "But I'll still treat you like hell. That's who I am."

He walked out, leaving her alone in the office.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Elara pushed herself upright. Her thighs were sticky, her heart racing, her body still humming with the aftershocks of an orgasm she'd fought tooth and nail to resist.

She hated him.

She hated him for making her come. For making her want him.

But most of all, she hated herself for the way her body still ached for his touch.

She cleaned herself up with trembling hands, using napkins from the café table. Her skirt was wrinkled. Her blouse was askew. She looked like she'd been fucked against a table-because she had.

She was a debt to be settled. A checking of goods.

Never again, she vowed. I'm not one of those cheap girls he can use and discard. I'll control my body. I'll build walls so high he'll never get in.

She straightened her dress, lifted her chin, and walked out of the office with her head held high.

But as she stepped into the elevator, she caught her reflection in the mirrored walls. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with unshed tears, her lips swollen from his kisses.

She looked like a woman who'd been claimed.

She hated that she didn't hate it.

She hated him.

And yet, as the elevator descended, she could still feel him inside her, still taste him on her lips, still hear his voice in her ear.

You taste like heaven. But I'll still treat you like hell.

What have I gotten myself into?

Dante walked out of Voss Tower with Elara's scent still clinging to his skin and the memory of her tight heat still pulsing around him. The night air did nothing to cool him down. His cock stayed heavy, restless, wanting more. One rough fuck over a table hadn't quieted a damn thing. It had only made the hunger sharper.

He needed someone who wouldn't fight him. Someone who would open without hate in her eyes.

He called Bella the second the car door shut.

She answered on the second ring, voice already soft.

"Dante."

"Club. VIP. Right now."

A short breath. "I'm coming."

---

The VIP section was dim and loud enough to hide almost anything. Dante sat with his legs spread, whiskey ignored, the hard line of his cock still pressing against his trousers. Bella walked in like she already knew what the night would cost her.

The black dress was short, clinging to her hips and the soft curve of her ass. The neckline plunged so deep the inner swells of her breasts shifted with every step. Her dark hair fell loose. Her mouth was painted that same deep red he liked to ruin.

She slid into the booth beside him, thigh warm against his.

"You already had someone," she said quietly. Not accusing. Just knowing.

He didn't deny it.

Her eyes searched his face. "I saw the news. Your father announced the wedding. Tomorrow."

Dante's jaw tightened. "She's not in my league. She's a debt my father collected. Collateral. Nothing more."

Relief flickered across her features, soft and almost painful. She loved him. He had never pretended to love her back. That never stopped her from giving him everything.

"Stop talking," he said, voice low. "Get on your knees."

She did without hesitation.

The table and the heavy curtains hid most of her. Bella opened his trousers, freed his cock, and took him into her mouth in one slow, wet slide. Warm. Soft. She hummed around the head, tongue pressing under the ridge the way that always made his stomach tighten. Then she sank lower, taking more until the tip nudged the back of her throat. She stayed there, throat working, eyes watering, before she pulled back with a thick string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock.

"Fuck..." The word left him rough.

She went down again, sucking harder this time, one hand stroking the base, the other cupping his balls. The wet sounds of her mouth filled the small space between the music and the curtains. Dante's fingers slid into her hair. He guided her, hips rolling up in shallow thrusts, watching her take him. She moaned around him like she loved the weight of him on her tongue, like she had been waiting all day for this exact moment.

His cock throbbed heavier with every stroke of her tongue. He felt the first warning pulse and pulled her off before he spilled.

"Private suite," he said, voice rough. "Now."

---

They barely made it through the door.

The suite was quiet, low lights, black leather, a wide bed against the far wall. The lock clicked. Dante pushed her back against the wall and kissed her hard, tasting himself on her tongue. He dragged the straps of her dress down her arms. The fabric fell to her waist. Her breasts spilled free-full, soft, nipples already tight.

He lowered his head and took one into his mouth.

He sucked slowly at first, tongue circling the peak, then harder, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. He switched to the other, sucked deep, left the skin wet and flushed. His hands cupped the heavy weight of them, thumbs stroking while his mouth worked. Bella's head fell back against the wall, a soft, broken sound leaving her throat.

"Dante..."

He kept going, sucking and licking until both nipples were red and sensitive, until she was arching into his mouth. Only then did he spin her around, bend her over the arm of the couch, and shove the dress higher. No panties. Just smooth skin and a cunt already glistening.

He dragged two fingers through her folds. She was soaked.

"We're playing a game," he said against her ear, voice low and steady. "Three turns each. Whoever is in control gives the orders. You break a rule, you lose the rest of your turns. Clear?"

"Clear," she whispered.

"I'm first."

He sat on the couch, cock still hard and wet from her mouth, and watched her.

"Finger yourself. Slow. Look at me the whole time. Moan my name. Pretend it's my cock stretching you open."

Bella turned to face him. She kept the dress bunched at her waist and slid two fingers between her legs. The wet sound of them pushing inside her filled the quiet room. She started slow, just like he told her, eyes locked on his. Her free hand rose to her own breast, pinching the nipple he had just sucked until it peaked harder.

"Dante..." The name came out soft, almost shaky.

She pushed deeper, curling her fingers, hips rolling in a slow, filthy rhythm. The scent of her arousal thickened in the air. Her thighs trembled. She added a third finger when he simply looked at her and raised a brow, and the moan that left her was lower, hungrier.

"Dante... fuck... it feels-"

"Don't stop," he said. "Keep going. Let me see you fuck yourself for me."

She did. Faster now. Wetness coated her fingers and dripped down her hand. Her mouth fell open. The moans grew broken, desperate, his name falling out of her again and again while she watched him watch her. Her legs started to shake hard. Her cunt made soft, slick sounds around her own fingers.

He let her get close-close enough that her breath hitched and her eyes went glassy-then spoke.

"Enough. Stop."

She froze, fingers still buried inside herself, chest rising and falling fast.

"Your turn," he said.

Bella's voice was unsteady but clear. "Lie back. I want your mouth on me. Suck my clit. Don't stop until I come."

He pulled her onto the couch, laid her back, and spread her thighs wide. He dragged his tongue through her folds in one long, slow lick, tasting how wet she was. Then he locked onto her clit-sucking it between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, pressing flat and firm when her hips jerked. Two fingers pushed inside her and curled against that sensitive spot. She grabbed his hair and held him there. He didn't fight it. He sucked harder, fucked her slowly with his fingers, and felt her start to tighten around him.

Her moans turned sharp, breathless. Her thighs clamped around his head. She came with a broken cry, cunt pulsing, body arching off the couch. He kept licking through it, slower, gentler, until she was twitching and trying to pull away from the overstimulation.

He wiped his mouth on the inside of her thigh and sat up.

"My turn again."