Page 111 of Made for Sinners

And as the city lights faded behind us and the penthouse came into view, I knew one thing for certain:

I’d get on my knees for her.

The car slid into the private garage beneath the penthouse like a shadow slipping into darkness. The engine purred to a stop, and the silence that followed was thick with everything wehadn’t said in the last ten minutes—everything I’d done to her with one hand on the wheel and the other buried between her thighs.

She was still flushed, still catching her breath, her dress rumpled just enough to remind me of what I’d done. What I’d tasted. What I wanted more of.

I killed the engine, unbuckled my seatbelt, and turned to her.

“Stay there,” I said, my voice low and rough.

She arched a brow, lips still swollen from biting back moans. “Bossy.”

I smirked. “You like it.”

She didn’t argue.

I stepped out, the cool air of the garage brushing against my skin, grounding me just enough to keep my control from snapping entirely. I rounded the car, my shoes echoing against the concrete, and opened her door.

She looked up at me, eyes dark, lips parted, and I reached for her hand.

But I didn’t help her out.

Not right away.

Instead, I leaned in, one hand braced on the roof of the car, the other sliding up her bare thigh again, slow and deliberate.

“You said I could get on my knees,” I murmured, my mouth brushing her ear. “You didn’t say I had to wait until we were inside.”

Her breath hitched.

I dropped to my knees right there in front of her, the hem of her dress pooling around her thighs like midnight silk. The garage was empty, silent except for the low hum of the city above us and the sound of her breathing picking up again.

She shifted in the seat, her legs parting slightly.

Invitation accepted.

I pushed the fabric of her dress higher, exposing the lace I’d already ruined earlier. My fingers hooked into the waistband, and I tugged her panties down her thighs, slow and reverent, like I was unwrapping a gift I already knew I’d never deserve.

She lifted her hips just enough to help me, and I slid them off completely, tucking them into my jacket pocket like a trophy.

Then I looked up at her.

“Put your legs on the seat,” I said, my voice low and commanding.

She obeyed, slowly, her heels resting on the edge of the leather, her thighs spread wide. Her hands gripped the sides of the seat, knuckles white, as I leaned in.

And tasted her again.

She gasped, her back arching, her fingers digging into the leather. I groaned against her, the taste of her still fresh on my tongue, the heat of her driving me insane.

I licked slowly, deliberately, savoring every reaction—every twitch, every moan, every breathless curse she whispered into the air.

“Dante—” she gasped, her voice breaking.

I didn’t stop.

I couldn’t.

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