Page 119 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

He’d eventually made a game of which socialite it would bethisweek. Sometimes they’d tried to seduce him in duos.

But never had he travelled for a woman. Never had he returned to any specific destination because his skin ached to feel a woman’s touch. Never had he tried to beat the sun to make sure he was in a woman’s bed before she woke to wake her withhiskiss.

But he did these things for her.

For his wife.

Their marriage was a contract; it was not about love or friendship. It was a way of controlling the fire that raged between them. A way for him to have the one woman who consumed him, again and again, whenever he wanted.

He had thought one year would be enough. Enough to satisfy the hunger.

In the past, Dante had played by the rules his father had written. That playbook had suited him just fine. Until Emma... So many rules didn’t apply to her because she was different from any other woman he’d ever taken to bed.

And that’s why he was proposing they extend their contract by an additional three. Because the heat between them was too hot to ignore. But most of all, because Emma understood the rules of their marriage and she played by them so beautifully. They wanted the same things.

The plane landed without ceremony.

Dante collected the contract, slipped it inside his briefcase and closed the golden clasps.

He descended the stairs and got into the waiting car.

Ten minutes and he’d beback at the house they shared.

He wasn’t so naive. This obsession with her, his little crush, would end.Eventually. Then and only then would he end it.

But not yet.

Three more years should suffice. He was sure. And then he and she would part ways amicably.

He hadn’t spoken to Emma for two weeks. But his people had informed him his wife had returned safely to their Mayfair residence two days ago.

Funerals, they were horrid things. When his father died, Dante had jumped out of a plane rather than attend. And what would have been the point anyway? Burying an empty casket seemed pointless. When people went missing at sea, there were no bodies.

Besides, funerals were for the living to mourn and weep, and to claim closure. None of which Dante required. He’d never loved his father. Never had a relationship with him that required closure. The only thing his father had left him was his playbook, the only inheritance Dante had ever required.

And Dante knew by heart the script his father had written:never give away your power. Always be in control. Let no one get too close. Never let them leave first. Never give them the opportunity to hurt you.

The only woman who had ever done that was his mother.

Technically, she’d left them both. Her husband and her son. But it mattered little. He’d couldn’t remember her. He certainly didn’t need her.

But Emma wasn’t like him. And she had done all the dutiful things she thought a daughter should do for her mother’s funeral. She had wanted closure. She hadn’t felt the need to run from her past by whatever means necessary.

It was why he had never taken her with him when he was away on business. His work took him deep into dangerous territory, exploring unmapped lands and canyons. Emma didn’t want to explore the unknown. She liked the status quo.Normality. And that’s what he gave her.

That’s why they worked so well.

He lived his life, and she lived hers, and then they both came back to each other. No mind games.

If she had a need, he met it. As he had for the entirety of their marriage—as he would continue to do until their marriage ended.

Their arrangement suited them both. And she was content. He knew, because why wouldn’t she be happy? His billions give her access to everything she could ever want, including him.

The car travelled through London’s sleeping streets until it reached the house he and Emma shared. Swiftly, he made his way inside, depositing his briefcase at the foot of the staircase.

Anticipation shot through him.

For twenty-one days he hadn’t touched his wife, hadn’t felt the warmth of her skin.

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