Page 42 of Made for Saints

He smirked, his gaze fixed on the road. “You heard me. Should I be worried about your little...romance?”

“There is no romance,” I snapped, my cheeks heating. “And even if there were, it’s none of your business.”

“Everything about you is my business,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “And I’d hate to have to inform your father about your...extracurricular activities.”

My jaw dropped, a mix of anger and disbelief surging through me. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” he said, his smirk widening.

I glared at him, my hands curling into fists. “You’re what, forty and going to be a tattle tale?”

“Forty? I hope I look this good at Forty.”

“Fifty?”

He rolled his eyes. “You know I’m thirty five, and you’re avoiding the question” he said, his tone infuriatingly calm. “Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“That there’s nothing between you and the delivery guy.”

I stared at him, my pulse racing as I tried to process his words. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he said, his gaze flicking to me briefly before returning to the road. “But you’re not denying it.”

“Fine,” I said, my voice trembling with frustration. We had stopped at a redlight. “You want proof? Here’s your proof.”

Before I could think better of it, the words barely out of my mouth, I leaned across the center console, closing the space between us, and reached up, my fingers brushing his jawline. His skin was warm, his stubble rough beneath my fingertips. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. If anything, he tilted his headslightly, as if curious to see what I would do next.

His eyes darkened, the faint smirk slipping from his lips as my hand moved to the back of his neck, pulling him down toward me. For a moment, I thought he might resist, might push me back and regain the upper hand he always seemed to have.

But he didn’t.

His breath mingled with mine, warm and steady, as I brought his face to mine. And then, before I could second-guess myself, I pressed my lips to his.

The kiss was anything but soft. It was sharp, electric, and overwhelming, like stepping too close to a flame. He raised his hand, gripping my waist, and his fingers curled slightly as if trying to decide whether to pull me closer or push me away.

For a moment, the world fell away—the tension, the danger, the constant push and pull between us. All that mattered was the heat of his mouth, the way his lips moved against mine with a controlled hunger that made my knees weak.

When we finally broke apart, I was breathless, my chest heaving as I tried to steady myself. His forehead rested against mine for the briefest of moments, and I could feel the tension coiled in him, the restraint he was barely holding onto.

“Dangerous game,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, his breath fanning across my face. “You have no idea what you’ve started.”

I swallowed hard, my fingers still tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Maybe I do.”

I sat back on the seat before I could do it again.

The kiss was impulsive, reckless—a fleeting moment of contact that sent a jolt of electricity through me. His lips were warm, firm, and devastatingly soft, and the heat of him seemed to ignite something deep in my chest.

But it was brief. Too brief. My breath came in short, uneven gasps, and my fingers gripped the edge of the seat like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.

“Satisfied?” I said, my voice shaky, barely above a whisper.

Dante didn’t respond right away. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes locked onto mine like he was trying to decipher something hidden deep inside me. The car felt impossibly small, the air thick with a tension that almost crackled.

Then, slowly, a smirk curved his lips, but there was something different about it—something darker, more dangerous.

“Not even close,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping against silk.

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