Page 60 of Made for Sinners

“You want more?” he asked, his voice dripping with wicked intent. I nodded frantically, my nails digging into the edge of the sink as I fought to hold myself together. He pulled his fingers out slowly, dragging a desperate whine from my throat, before unbuttoning his pants and freeing his cock. It was thick, long, and impossibly hard, the flushed head glistening faintly in the light. I could see it in the mirror—veined and perfect, made to ruin me—and my mouth watered at the thought of tasting him.

But that wasn’t what he wanted. Not yet. He pressed the head of his cock against my entrance, teasing me with the promise of what was to come. I whimpered, my body trembling as he held me there, forcing me to feel every inch of him without giving me what I needed.

“Tell me,” he growled, his voice like a fucking demand. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” I breathed, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “Please… please Dante,fuck me.”

He didn’t make me wait. With one sharp thrust, he buried himself inside me, and I cried out at the stretch, at the way he filled me so completely. He didn’t stop until he was fully sheathed, until there was no space left between us. My nails scraped against the sink as he held me there, his breath hot against my neck.

“Look at us,” he ordered, and I did. I watched as he pulled out slowly, dragging a moan from my lips, before slamming back into me with enough force to make me scream. My eyes locked on the mirror, on the way his body moved against mine, on the way he owned every inch of me.

It was filthy. It wasperfect.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his hips snapping against mine in a rhythm that left me breathless. “Take it. Take every fucking inch.”

I did. I took everything he gave me, every thrust, every word, every possessive growl that spilled from his lips. He fucked me like he owned me—like I was his to ruin—and I let him. God, I let him. My body arched against his, my hands scrabbling for purchase as he drove into me again and again, each thrust hitting that sweet spot that made me see stars.

“You feel that?” he muttered, his voice rough with need. “Feel how fucking good I make you feel?”

I couldn’t answer. I was too far gone, too lost in the way he moved inside me, in the way he made me feel so completely owned. His hand left my hair, sliding down to grip my waist as he fucked me harder, faster, until I was so close to the edge I could barely breathe.

“Come for me,” he commanded, and I did. My body shattered around him, pleasure exploding through me in waves that left me trembling and gasping for air. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking me through it, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until I was a whimpering mess in his arms.

Only then did he let himself go, his hips slamming into me one last time as he came deep inside me, filling me with everything he had. His arms wrapped around me, holding me close as we both came down from the high, our breaths ragged and our bodies still trembling.

“Mine,” he muttered against my neck, and I couldn’t argue. Not when he’d just claimed every part of me so completely.

The girl in the mirror looked wrecked. She looked like his.

And god help me… I loved it.

17

EMILIA

Iwoke up sore.

Not just a little sore—aching, bone-deep sore, the kind that seeped into every muscle and reminded me of the night before with vivid, unrelenting clarity. Dante didn’t know the meaning of restraint. Or maybe he did, and he simply chose to ignore it.

I groaned, rolling onto my side, wincing as the movement sent fresh waves of soreness through my body. The sheets were cool against my skin, but they still carried Dante’s scent—dark spice, something rich and masculine that seemed to wrap around me even in his absence.

The other side of the bed was empty.

Somehow, that didn’t surprise me. Dante wasn’t the type to linger.

I exhaled slowly, the memory of last night flickering to life behind my closed eyes. It started in the bathroom—his hand in my hair, pulling my head back so I had no choice but to watch him in the mirror. It was overwhelming, consuming, and left me trembling by the time he was done.

But that wasn’t the end. He’d scooped me into his arms like I weighed nothing, whisked me to the bed, and took me again. And again. And again. Each time rougher, deeper, until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t remember my own name—only his. His hands were everywhere, his voice low and commanding as he pulled me apart over and over, leaving me wrecked and clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering me to reality.

Even now, I could still feel him—his fingerprints lingering on my skin, the ache between my thighs, and the way he’d looked at me like he wanted to ruin me completely. And maybe he had.

Shoving the thought aside, I pushed myself upright, the silk sheets pooling around my waist. My thighs protested the movement, a dull ache settling deep as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. I reached for the robe draped over the chair beside the bed, slipping it on and tying it loosely at my waist.

The penthouse was quiet, eerily so, as I padded barefoot toward the kitchen.

The smell of coffee hit me first—strong, rich, and inviting.

Then the sound of something sizzling.

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