Page 108 of Made for Saints

His lips curled into a wicked grin as he withdrew his fingers from my pussy, trailing them over my belly and down to the sensitive skin between my thighs. I shivered in anticipation, my breath hitched as I waited for his next move.

And then, he did it.

He leaned in, his warm breath fanning over my pussy before he began to lick me with long, slow strokes of his tongue. I cried out, clutching the sheets beneath me as the sensations coursed through me like an electric current. His fingers continued to tease me, rubbing against my clit in a rhythm that built and built until I thought I'd explode.

His mouth was a masterpiece, his lips sucking on my clit while his tongue flicked at my swollen folds. I moaned loudly, my hips bucking against him as he probed deeper, tasting every inch of me.

"Dante," I gasped, my fingers tangling in his hair. "I can't...I need—"

His name was the only word left on my lips as he slid a finger inside me again, this time stretching me and filling me in one slick thrust.

He was on his knees, his face buried between my thighs like a man starved for the taste of me. His breath is hot against my pussy, and I can feel his smirk against my skin as he pulls his fingers out of me slowly, his digits glistening with my slick, teasing my clit with a torturous flick of his tongue that sends a jolt straight up my spine. I’m already panting, my hips bucking involuntarily, and he knows he’s got me right where he wants me—desperate, needy, and utterly at his mercy as I whimper at his withdrawal.

“Patience,” he growls, his voice low and filthy, and then his tongue is back on me, licking me from slit to clit in one long,slow stroke that has me gasping for air. My fingers claw at the sheets, but he pins my hips down with those strong fucking hands of his, holding me steady as he devours me like a fucking feast. His tongue circles my clit, teasing it gently at first, then firmer, faster, until I’m writhing beneath him, my moans spilling out like a symphony of need.

He plunges his tongue into my pussy, fucking me with it, rhythmic and deep, as his fingers tease the entrance to my ass. I gasp at the unexpected invasion, my body arching off the bed, every nerve ending alight with pleasure. He knows exactly how to play me, how to make me scream, and he’s not holding back. His thumb finds my clit again, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles that make me see fucking stars.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs against my pussy, his voice vibrating against my sensitive folds, and the sound goes straight to my core. “You taste like fucking heaven.” He’s relentless, his tongue and fingers working in perfect fucking harmony, driving me closer and closer to the edge. I’m moaning his name now, begging him not to stop, and the sound only makes him hungrier.

He pauses just long enough to look up at me, his lips slick with my arousal, his eyes dark with lust. “I’ve always been a selfish man,” he says, his voice rough and raw. “But you...you’re a fucking gift. And I’m going to worship every inch of you.” Then he’s back on me, his tongue fucking me like it’s his sole purpose in life, his fingers teasing my asshole with just enough pressure to make me whimper.

The sensations are too much—his tongue in my pussy, his thumb on my clit, his fingers teasing my ass—and I can feel my orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter inside me. He moans into me, the vibrations sending me spiraling, and I’m so close, so goddamn close...

“Come for me, princess,” he growls, and that’s all it takes. My body shatters, pleasure ripping through me like a fucking tidal wave, and I scream his name as I come undone beneath him. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up until I’m shaking with theforce of it, tears streaming down my face.

When it’s over, I collapse back onto the bed, boneless and spent, and he crawls up to wrap his arms around me. I’m exhausted, my mind a blur as I drift off to sleep in his arms. The thought of what I did earlier—killing that man—floats through my mind for a moment, but it’s distant, unimportant. Right now, all that matters is the warmth of his body against mine and the way he holds me like I’m the most precious fucking thing in the world.

Tomorrow can wait.

Chapter 35

Dante

The room was still, the kind of quiet that only existed in the early morning hours when the world hadn’t quite woken up yet. The faint hum of the city filtered in through the windows, but it was distant, muted, like background noise to the symphony playing in my mind.

She was asleep beside me, her body curled into the sheets, her hair spilling across the pillow like a dark halo. The soft rise and fall of her chest was hypnotic, a rhythm that seemed to steady the chaos constantly churning inside me. I leaned back against the headboard, my arm draped over my knee as I watched her, the faint glow of dawn casting her in shades of gold and shadow.

How the hell had this happened?

I didn’t mean the mechanics of it—I knew exactly how we’d ended up here. Her lips, her hands, the way she’d looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. No, what I didn’t understand was how she’d gotten under my skin so completely, how she’d managed to tear down walls I’d spent years building without even trying.

It had been a slow drip at first. A glance here, a sharp retort there. Little moments that I’d brushed off as nothing more than passing interest. But then the drip became a trickle, and the trickle became a flood, and now...now I was drowning in her, and I didn’t want to come up for air.

I rubbed a hand over my face, exhaling quietly. I should’ve walked away from her weeks ago. Hell, I should’ve walkedaway the moment I realized she wasn’t just another spoiled mafia princess. But I hadn’t. And now, as I sat here watching her sleep, I knew I never would.

She shifted slightly, her lips parting as she let out a soft sigh, and my chest tightened. How could someone be so goddamn beautiful without even trying? It wasn’t just her looks—though, Christ, those were enough to drive a man insane—it was everything about her. The fire in her eyes, the way she stood up to me even when she was scared, the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide but couldn’t quite mask.

And then there was last night.

The memory of her beneath me, her body moving against my tongue, desperate for more—it was burned into my mind, a brand I’d carry with me for the rest of my life. She’d trusted me, given herself to me, and I’d be damned if I ever let anyone hurt her again.

The thought of Romero made my blood boil. My jaw tightened as I replayed the events of the night before, the way I’d found her in that room, covered in blood, her eyes wide with shock. She’d been so brave, so strong, but I could see the cracks beneath the surface. She’d killed to protect herself, and while I was proud of her for surviving, the thought of her being put in that position in the first place made me want to burn the world down.

It wouldn’t happen again. Not on my watch.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, careful not to disturb her as I stood. Padding quietly to the kitchen, I set about making coffee, the familiar routine grounding me in a way I desperately needed. The rich aroma filled the air as I cracked a few eggs into a pan, the sizzle of butter against the heat a soothing counterpoint to the storm in my chest.

I was plating the food when my phone buzzed on the counter. I glanced at the screen and groaned. Luca. Of course.

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