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."