You Have Me

**You Have Me** 

**Part 1: Mine**

The Mediterranean night was thick with salt air, pulsing music, and the scent of expensive perfume mixed with champagne. On the sprawling deck of the luxury yacht anchored off Ibiza, Dante Grayson stood apart from the chaos, leaning against the railing with a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand. At thirty-one, he was the kind of man who commanded rooms without trying—tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp jawlines and dark eyes that could strip a person bare. Rich beyond reason, heir to a shadowy empire that blended legitimate hotels with less legitimate enterprises, Dante had everything.

Except her.

Alma Aisha Russo.

The thought of her name alone tightened something low in his gut. The quiet, hijab-wearing woman who worked double shifts at a small café in the city. Poor by any standard his circle measured, yet richer in dignity than anyone he’d ever met. She’d served him coffee three months ago, and that had been it. One lingering look. One soft “thank you” in her accented voice. Now she haunted him.

“Bro, you’re killing the vibe,” Jose Brady called out, laughing as he danced with two models in barely-there bikinis. Jose was twenty-nine, golden-haired, and the ultimate fuckboy—wealthy, reckless, and currently obsessed with Natalie Edwards. His sister Julia, twenty-seven and just as wild, was tangled up with Maggie Edwards, Natalie’s influencer sister, somewhere below deck. The Brady siblings lived for nights like this.

Dante barely heard him. His phone had buzzed earlier with intel from one of his contacts. Alma’s close friend was having her bachelorette party tonight at one of the hottest clubs on the island. *Exotic*. Private room. Strippers booked.

A dangerous idea formed.

He slipped away from the yacht without a word.

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The club throbbed with deep bass. Colored lights swept over writhing bodies. Dante had used his connections and a thick envelope of cash to get the details. The male strippers for the bachelorette were already inside. He cornered one in the back alley, a cocky guy about his size, and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Ten minutes later, Dante was wearing the man’s outfit—tight black pants that left nothing to the imagination, a half-unbuttoned shirt stretched across his chest, and a mask that hid just enough of his face. He moved through the VIP corridor with the other performers, heart hammering in a way it never did during boardroom takeovers or late-night deals.

The private room was dimly lit, laughter and shrieks filling the air. A group of women in glittering dresses and veils surrounded the bride-to-be. And there, slightly apart, sat Alma Aisha.

She wore a modest black dress that still hugged her curves, her hijab a deep emerald green that framed her face beautifully. No heavy makeup. Just those wide, expressive eyes and full lips. She looked uncomfortable but happy for her friend, nursing a mocktail.

Dante’s blood surged the second he saw her.

The music shifted to something slower, more sensual. The strippers fanned out. Dante ignored the others and walked straight toward her.

Alma’s gaze lifted—and locked on him.

Her lips parted. A slow flush crept up her neck as she took him in: the powerful build, the way the shirt clung to his muscles, the confident stride. She didn’t recognize him behind the mask, but something in her body reacted instantly. Her thighs pressed together. Her fingers tightened around her glass.

*Fuck*, Dante thought. She was admiring him. Wanting him.

He stopped right in front of her, towering over her seated form. The other women whooped, but Alma’s eyes stayed on his chest, then slowly dragged up to the mask.

Without a word, he offered his hand.

She hesitated only a second before sliding her smaller hand into his. Electricity crackled between them. He pulled her gently to her feet, then closer, until her body brushed his.

The dance started slow—his hands settling on her waist, respectful at first. But as the beat deepened, he drew her flush against him. Alma gasped softly, feeling the hard planes of his body, the unmistakable ridge pressing against her stomach through the thin fabric.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured low enough that only she could hear, his voice rough with need.

Alma shivered. That voice… familiar, yet thickened by desire. She looked up, searching the masked face. “Who are you?”

“Someone who’s been thinking about you every night.” His hands slid lower, gripping her hips as he rolled his body against hers in time with the music. The movement was pure sin—controlled, dominant, promising everything.

Around them, the party grew louder, but the world narrowed to just them. Alma’s breath hitched as one of his thighs slipped between hers, guiding her into a slow grind. Her hands came up to his chest, fingers curling into the shirt fabric. She could feel his heartbeat, as wild as hers.

Heat pooled between her legs. She knew this was reckless. She was the good girl. The modest one. But with this stranger—this man who moved like he already owned her—she felt alive.

Dante leaned down, lips brushing the edge of her hijab near her ear. “I want you, Alma. I’ve wanted you for months. Tell me to stop… or let me show you how mine you already are.”

Her eyes widened in shock as recognition hit. “Dante…?”

The mask hid his smirk, but not the hunger in his eyes. He pressed harder against her, letting her feel exactly how hard he was for her. The dance became filthier—his hand sliding down to cup her ass, pulling her into every thrust of his hips.

Alma whimpered, burying her face in his chest as arousal soaked through her. The drama of her simple life crashed against the dangerous thrill of him. Rich. Powerful. Possibly dangerous. And completely fixated on her.

The song ended too soon. Dante didn’t let her go. Instead, he tilted her chin up and kissed her—deep, claiming, tasting the sweetness of her surprise and growing desire.

When he pulled back, his voice was dark velvet. “This is just the beginning, Alma Aisha. You have me… but more importantly…”

He brushed his thumb over her swollen lower lip.

**“You’re Mine.”**

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