Page 43 of Made for Saints

Before I could process his words, before I could react, Dante moved.

In one smooth motion, he reached across the console, his hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers threading into my hair. The sudden contact sent a shiver down my spine, and I barely had time to draw in a breath before his lips crashed against mine.

This kiss wasn’t like the first. This wasn’t brief, hesitant, or fleeting. This was something else entirely—demanding, consuming, and utterly overwhelming. His lips moved against mine with a confidence that left no room for doubt, his other hand finding my waist and pulling me closer until there was only the console between us.

I let out a soft gasp, and he took full advantage, deepening the kiss in a way that made my head spin. His tongue brushed against mine, coaxing, exploring, and leaving a trail of heat in its wake. The world outside the car disappeared entirely, the only thing anchoring me to reality was the feel of his hands on me, the taste of him, the way he kissed me like he’d been waiting for this moment forever.

My hands moved before I could stop them, one gripping his jacket while the other slid up to his shoulder, desperate for something to hold onto. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a wildfire, spreading through me, leaving nothing untouched.

I didn’t want to stop.

But then reality came crashing back in, cold and unrelenting, and I forced myself to pull away, breaking the kiss with a sharp intake of breath. My lips felt swollen, my skin flushed, and my heart was racing so fast it felt like it might give out.

Dante didn’t let go right away. His hand lingered on my neck, his thumb brushing against the curve of my jaw as his dark eyes bored into mine. His breathing was just as uneven as mine, his lips slightly parted, and I hated how good he looked—how good he felt. Someone honked from behind us and I noticed the light had turned green.

“Now I’m satisfied,” he said, his voice husky and smug, but there was something more beneath it. Something raw.

I couldn’t speak. Words felt impossible, my mind too foggy to string together a coherent sentence. Instead, I jerked back into my seat, my hands trembling as I pressed them against my thighs in a vain attempt to steady myself.

The rest of the drive was silent, the air between us thick with tension that felt impossible to cut. I stared out the window, refusing to look at him, but I could feel his gaze flicking toward me every so often, and it sent another shiver down my spine.

I was in trouble.

Deep, deep trouble.

Chapter 16

Dante

Rules.

I’ve lived my entire life by them.

Some were inherited—etched into my very DNA by my father’s iron fist and my mother’s whispered lessons about survival. Others, I created myself—a personal code to keep the chaos in check. Rules about control, about power, about never letting anyone see the cracks beneath the surface.

Control is everything. Without it, you’re a liability. A man without control is a man with a death wish.

And yet, here I was, gripping the steering wheel of my Aston Martin so tightly that I could feel the leather groan beneath my fingers. My jaw clenched, my pulse pounding in my ears, and all because of one kiss.

Her kiss.

Emilia Ricci.

The woman was a walking contradiction—sharp and soft, defiant and vulnerable, a perfect storm wrapped in silk and fire. She was everything I shouldn’t want, and yet, she was all I could think about.

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye as I drove, my knuckles whitening against the wheel. She was staring out the window, her profile illuminated by the glow of the passing streetlights. Her lips were slightly parted, still swollen from where I’d kissed her.

No. From where she’d kissed me.

That kiss...

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

I’d spent years perfecting the art of control, of keeping my emotions locked away behind a wall of indifference. But the moment her lips touched mine, that wall had crumbled like it was made of sand.

I’d lost control.

And that terrified and infuriated me.

---