His confession tasted warm and sweet on her lips; she kissed the last of it and lingered there, grinning against his mouth. She clutched his side and sunk her fingers into his hair, her gaze going over him, soft and tender, beneath long, dark lashes. Tangled up in him, nothing but a mere breath could fit between them. "Now you know how I feel," she murmured, a chuckle fluttering in her throat.
Dante was a complete wonder in and of himself--it was still to Violeta's own amazement that this guarded, abrasive, impossible man of few words--sharp more often than not--could speak so candidly with her. Chose to. That, for all that they argued, pushed and pulled at each other, sometimes close to total madness, none of it compared to these moments of raw adoration they shared with each other.
He was hers, flawed and full of rarities, and he was enough.