Page 106 of Auctioned Innocence
“Wasincredible.” His voice is rough with something deeper than admiration. “You saved us. You savedme.”
My cheeks flame with embarrassment even though pride rushes through me. “You would have done the same.”
“But I didn’t have to. You did.” His thumb traces across my cheek, and I realize I’m crying. When did that start? “You were magnificent.”
The word hits me like a physical thing. Magnificent. Not brave or lucky or desperate.Magnificent.
“Dante…”
“I thought—when they took you, I thought…” He stops, swallows hard. “I couldn’t protect you. I fucking failed and I thought I’d lost you.”
“But you didn’t lose me.” I cup his face in my hands, careful of his injuries. “I’m right here.”
“You are.” His eyes are intense, burning. “You’re here and you’re safe and you’re so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you.”
I don’t know who moves first. Just that one moment we’re staring at each other and the next his mouth is on mine.
This kiss is different. Deeper. Desperate. His hands tangle in my hair as I press closer, needing him closer, always closer. We’re both alive, both here, both safe for the first time in hours.
When we break for air, his eyes are molten. “We should stop.”
I don’t want to. “Should we?”
Instead of answering, he pulls me back down, kissing me like a drowning man finding air.
And this time, nothing interrupts us.
20
SOFIA
His mouth moves from mine to trail down my throat, and I arch into him, my hands fisting in his shirt. The relief, the want I’ve been suppressing for years—it’s all crashes together into something I can’t resist.
“Sofia,” he breathes against my collarbone, and the reverence in his voice makes my heart stutter.
My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, working them open with hands that shake slightly—not from fear, but from anticipation. When I spread the fabric apart, I see new bruises blooming across his chest and scabs from another bullet graze, evidence of our ordeal.
“You’re hurt,” I whisper, my touch gentle as I trace the darkening marks.
“So are you.” His thumb brushes across the cut on my cheek then lower to where my shirt is torn. “We’re both a mess.”
“I don’t care.” I meet his eyes. “Do you?”
His answer is to lift me, carrying me toward the bedroom as I wrap my legs around his waist.
The city lights paint silver patterns across bare skin. Dante’s hands shake slightly as they trace my face, my neck, lower—like he can’t quite believe this is real.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispers, his voice breaking on the words. “Dreamed about it. Hated myself for dreaming about it.”
“Don’t hate yourself.” I kiss the scar on his shoulder, one I imagine he received from protecting Marco or Mario. “I wanted it too. Want you.”
His breath catches, and I see something raw and vulnerable flash across his face. “Sofia…” His voice breaks on my name, and suddenly his hands are shaking for an entirely different reason.
“You don’t understand,” he whispers, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. “I’ve wanted you since you were nineteen. Hated myself for it. Thought I was some kind of monster for?—”
“You’re not a monster.” I cup his face, forcing him to meet my eyes. “You’re the man who’s protected me my whole life. The man who came for me when I was taken. The man who?—”
He cuts me off with a kiss that tastes like desperation and gratitude and years of suppressed longing.
