Page 155 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

‘You...’ she breathed.

‘Emmy...’ Her name wasn’t a warning. It was a plea. She recognised it, because her body pleaded with her too. Begged her to give in to the heat between them.

To surrender. Emma rose on her tiptoes and began to close the distance between them. And with every millimetre she felt the anticipation climb inside her.

Until Dante finally caught her mouth with his.

CHAPTER SEVEN

DANTEWASDROWNINGin her. Drowning in Emma’s kiss.

A growl rose in him as he caressed her lips.

The confirmation that she wanted to come back to him, to where she belonged, took his breath away. He couldn’t get close enough to her, to the source of sustenance his body craved.

He had fantasised about this moment for too long. The fantasy had once been his reality. The taste of her lips. Warm. Spiced. And he’d sipped from her lips, again and again, indulging in her mouth, her tongue, until all he could taste was her.

Until she was gone.

Then the fantasy had become his wildest dream. Fevered nights and days remembering her. Trying to forget her. But wanting her. And here she was now, wanting him.

He tried to get even closer. To satisfy the compulsion to get nearer.

He bowed his chest into hers. Into her breasts. Pressed his hardness into her softness.

He palmed her with his hands. Caressed her naked shoulders. Stroked her waist as he inched his way towards her back, towards the naked dip in her spine, and pressed his fingers into her flesh. Dragged her into him.

But it wasn’t enough.

So he devoured her.

He swept the crease of her mouth with his tongue until it opened for him, allowing him to taste her more deeply.

It still wasn’t enough.

There was nothing between them but the thin barrier of their clothes. And what he wanted was to release her so that they could shed them, but he could not release her. Could not command his brain to do what he wanted. What he knew they both wanted.

‘Emmy...’ he moaned against her. And he barely recognised the visceral rawness.

His body was on fire, but his brain was whispering in tongues. His body was responding to a language he didn’t speak.

Restraining him.

The shackles were invisible. But he felt them on his wrists. Holding him back.

Dante pleaded in silent prayer. He wanted to be gentle with her the first time they came together. But he felt anything but gentle. He wanted to take her here, in this garden.

But everything inside him was urging—demanding—he go slower. Taste every inch of the skin he had missed. Press against the heat of her and linger there, in the warmth of her.

Emma suddenly pushed him away, tearing his mouth from her.

The urge to reach for her, to keep his hold on her, was so strong.

Her eyes, wild and wide, heavy with desire, locked onto his.

And he watched, mesmerised, as she moved over to the table, took a seat, right on its edge.

He stood rooted to the spot. Aching. Watching.

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