Page 114 of Made for Sinners

“Fuck,” he groaned, his rhythm growing erratic as he chased his own release. His fingers tightened on my hips, holding me in place as he drove into me, harder, faster. “You feel so fucking good. So tight. So perfect.”

I was still coming down, my body limp and trembling, when I felt him tense behind me. His cock swelled, and then he was spilling inside me, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throatas he buried himself to the hilt. Heat flooded through me, his release marking me in a way that felt primal, possessive.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, his breath hot against my skin. “Every fucking inch of you.”

For a moment, neither of us moved, the room filled with the sound of our ragged breathing. Then he leaned over me, his chest pressing against my back as his lips found my neck once more.

Eventually, he rolled to his side, pulling me with him, his arms wrapping around me like he never wanted to let go.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured against my ear. “I’ll take you to Italy. I’ll take you anywhere you want. I’ll give you anything.”

I smiled, my fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“I just want you,” I said softly.

He kissed the top of my head.

“You have me,” he said. “Forever.”

And for the first time in a long time, I believed him.

29

DANTE

Morning came too fast.

The first thing I registered was warmth—soft skin pressed against mine, the faint scent of her hair on the pillow, the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing. Emilia was curled into me, her bare leg tangled with mine, her arm draped across my chest like she’d claimed me in her sleep.

And maybe she had.

I didn’t move.

Not yet.

The light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows was pale and gold, casting long shadows across the sheets. It caught on the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her hip, the delicate line of her spine as the sheet slipped low across her back. Her skin glowed in the morning sun, kissed in gold, and I had to clench my jaw to stop myself from waking her the way I wanted to—with my mouth on her, my hands gripping her hips, her name a low growl in my throat.

She looked like a painting. Like something I’d kill to keep untouched.

I watched her breathe, slow and even, the tension that usually coiled in her body finally at rest. She looked peaceful. Safe. And I hated that I was about to leave her.

But I had to.

Because peace was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Not when Rocco’s name was still burning in the back of my skull like a brand.

I leaned down, brushing a kiss against her temple. She stirred, murmured something I couldn’t make out, and shifted closer, her lips brushing my chest before she settled again.

I stood there for a moment, just watching her, my chest tight with something I didn’t want to name.

Then I slid out of bed slowly, grabbing my shirt and phone from the floor, and slipped out of the room.

The penthouse was quiet. Still. The kind of silence that felt like it was holding its breath.

I didn’t bother with breakfast. Just threw on a suit, tied my tie with muscle memory, and headed out.

Because there were things that needed doing.

And I was done waiting.

---