Page 119 of Made for Saints

His fingers pressed deeper, and a gasp tore from my lips before I could stop it. “Oh my god,” I choked out, the words slipping from me in a desperate, breathless rush.

“No god,” he murmured, his voice like gravel, rough and commanding, “just me.”

The words sent a tremor through me, my body trembling in his arms as a wave of pleasure crashed over me. My hands slipped against the glass, unable to find purchase, and he caught me effortlessly, his strong arms wrapping around me and pulling me back against his chest.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my temple as he held me close, his breath warm against my skin. “You’re perfect, Emilia. So perfect.”

I sagged against him, my body still humming with the aftershocks of what he’d done to me. His hands were steady, grounding, as he smoothed them over my sides, his touch gentle now, almost reverent. For a moment, neither of usspoke, the only sound the faint thrum of the music below and the ragged sound of my breathing.

Finally, I turned to look at him, my cheeks flushed, my hair a mess, and my heart still racing. “You’re impossible,” I said, though there was no heat in my words.

Dante smirked, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “And yet, you can’t stay away.”

He wasn’t wrong. As infuriating as he was, as dangerous as this was, I couldn’t stay away. He was a magnet, and I was helpless against the pull.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against mine in a kiss that was soft and unhurried, a stark contrast to the intensity of the moments before. It was a promise, a reminder of everything he’d just claimed.

When he pulled back, his gaze softened, and he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. He had a way of looking at me that made me feel exposed, like he could see every part of me, even the ones I tried to hide.

“Come on,” he said, his hand slipping into mine. “Let’s get you a drink.”

I let him lead me back to the plush sofas, my legs still unsteady as I sank into the cushions. The waiter returned with another glass of champagne, and Dante handed it to me before settling beside me, his arm draped casually over the back of the sofa.

The night was a blur of heat and tension, and even hours later, I couldn’t shake the feeling of Dante’s hands on my skin, his voice in my ear, the press of his body against mine. It was like he’d branded me, left an imprint so deep I could feel it in my bones. No matter how hard I tried to focus on anything else—the rhythmic thrum of the music, the faint hum of the city outside the car window as he drove me home—my mind kept circling back to him.

To the way he’d touched me.

To the way he’d claimed me.

The car ride home was quiet, but not the peaceful kindof quiet. It was heavy, crackling with unspoken words and lingering desire. Dante’s hand rested on the gearshift, his fingers tapping idly against the leather, but his gaze remained fixed on the road. I stole glances at him out of the corner of my eye, taking in the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble that made him look even more dangerous, more untouchable.

But he wasn’t untouchable. Not to me.

When the car finally pulled up in front of the Ricci estate, I hesitated, my hand hovering over the wdoor handle. I didn’t want to leave—not yet. But Dante’s dark eyes flicked to mine, and the intensity in his gaze rooted me to my seat.

“Go inside,” he said softly, his voice low and commanding. “And stay out of trouble.”

I swallowed hard, nodding as I reached for the door. But before I could step out, his hand shot out, gripping my wrist gently but firmly. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down my spine, and I turned to face him, my heart pounding.

“Emilia,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against the inside of my wrist. “Don’t forget what I said tonight.”

His words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning. You’re mine. Don’t forget it. I nodded again, unable to find my voice, and he released me, his hand lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“Goodnight, princess,” he said, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

“Goodnight,” I whispered, slipping out of the car and closing the door behind me. The cool night air hit me like a splash of water, but it did little to quell the fire still burning beneath my skin.

I watched as his car disappeared down the long driveway, the taillights glowing faintly in the darkness. Only when they were out of sight did I turn and head inside, my heels clicking softly against the marble floors as I made my way to my bedroom.

The house was quiet, the kind of silence that felt almostoppressive, like it was holding its breath. I closed the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as I tried to steady my racing heart. But it was no use. The memory of Dante’s touch, his voice, his presence—it was all-consuming, leaving no room for anything else.

I kicked off my heels, the cool floor a stark contrast to the heat radiating through me. My silk top clung to my skin, the faint scent of Dante’s cologne still lingering in the fabric. I peeled it off slowly, my fingers trembling as I tossed it onto the chair by the window. The leather leggings followed, leaving me in nothing but the delicate lace of my underwear.

The moonlight streamed through the window, casting a soft glow over the room as I sank onto the edge of the bed. My mind was a whirlwind, replaying every moment of the night in vivid detail—the way Dante’s hands had gripped my hips, the way his lips had claimed mine, the way his voice had made my entire body tremble.

I lay back against the pillows, my legs curling beneath me as my fingers trailed absently over the curve of my hip. My skin felt hypersensitive, every brush of my fingertips sending a jolt of electricity through me. I closed my eyes, letting the memory of Dante’s touch guide me, and my hand slipped lower, tracing the path his fingers had taken earlier.

A soft gasp escaped my lips as I pressed my palm against the heat between my thighs, the lace of my underwear doing little to dull the sensation. My hips arched instinctively, seeking more, and I let my fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding the slick evidence of just how much he’d affected me.

---