Page 47 of Made for Saints

Chapter 17

Emilia

The drive home had been suffocating. Dante hadn’t said a word after the incident at the sandwich shop, his jaw tight, knuckles bruised and bloodied on the steering wheel. The silence between us was thick, heavy with unspoken tension and the lingering heat of that kiss. My lips still tingled from it, but I forced myself not to think about that. Or the way his hands had felt on me. Or the way I’d wanted him to pull me closer, consequences be damned.

When we finally pulled into the driveway, I practically bolted out of the car, desperate for space. The cool night air hit my skin, a welcome reprieve from the stifling atmosphere inside the Aston Martin. I didn’t wait for him as I made my way inside, my heels clicking against the marble floor of the entryway.

He followed, of course. I could feel his presence behind me, a dark shadow that seemed to fill the entire house. Without a word, he veered off toward my father’s office, the door clicking shut behind him. I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, my chest tight with frustration and something else I didn’t want to name.

I needed a shower. A long, scalding shower to wash away the events of the day—and the lingering traces of him.

The water was almost too hot, scalding my skin as it cascaded over me, but I welcomed the burn. It was grounding, a physical sensation to drown out the chaos in my mind. I closed my eyes, letting the steam envelop me as I tried to piecemyself back together.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The way he’d looked at me in the car, his dark eyes burning with something raw and unrelenting. The way his voice had dropped to that low, dangerous murmur that made my pulse race. The way he’d kissed me—like he was staking a claim, like he wanted to consume me whole.

I hated him for it. Hated the way he made me feel out of control, like I was teetering on the edge of something I couldn’t name. And yet, beneath the anger, there was something else. Something I didn’t want to admit.

Desire.

Steam rose in thick, suffocating clouds, wrapping around me like Dante’s arms should’ve been. My hands trembled as I raked them through my soaked hair, tugging at the strands, wishing they were his. His face was burned into my brain, that sharp fucking jawline, those full lips that were made for sin, and those dark, brooding eyes that seemed to see right through me, straight to the pulsing, aching mess between my legs.

The sound of the water pounded against the tiles like a drumbeat synced to the rhythm of my own ragged, needy breaths.

I leaned my forehead against the cold tiles, but the chill did nothing to cool the fire raging inside me. My nipples were hard little peaks, begging for attention, and my pussy—Jesus Christ—it was throbbing, wet in a way that had nothing to do with the shower. My fingers trailed down my neck, following the phantom path of his mouth, his tongue, his teeth. I could still feel the ghost of his lips on my skin, and it was driving me fucking insane.

With a frustrated growl, I let my hand drift lower, skimming over my collarbone, down to my tits. I pinched a nipple, hard, just the way I imagined he would, and a moan ripped out of me, raw and primal. My other hand slid down my stomach, fingers dipping into the heat between my thighs.I was fucking soaked, my cunt clenching around nothing, desperate for something—anything—to fill it.

“Fuck,” I hissed as my fingers found my clit, swollen and begging for attention. I circled it slowly at first, teasing myself, imagining it was his tongue, his fingers…his cock. My hips started to move on their own, grinding against my hand as I worked myself faster, harder. The water beat against my back, but it was nothing compared to the pleasure building inside me, hot and urgent and unrelenting.

“Dante,” I whimpered, my fingers working furiously now, plunging into my dripping pussy while my thumb kept up the relentless pressure on my clit. My legs were shaking, my breath coming in short, desperate gasps as I chased that sweet, fucking perfect release. I could feel it building, that tight coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter until—

“Oh God,” I cried out as I came, my body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me. My knees buckled, and I braced myself against the tiled walls, riding out the orgasm until I was spent, trembling, and more fucking frustrated than ever.

I shut off the water with more force than necessary, the echo of the faucet twisting through the bathroom. Wrapping myself in a towel, I stepped out of the shower, the cool air prickling my damp skin. My reflection stared back at me from the fogged mirror, my cheeks flushed, my lips still slightly swollen.

I looked...undone. Like a woman who’d just been kissed senseless by a man she couldn’t stand.

Shaking my head, I pushed the thought away and reached for the silk slip I’d left draped over the vanity. The fabric was cool against my skin, clinging to my still-damp body as I adjusted the thin straps on my shoulders. It was an indulgence, something I’d bought on a whim and rarely wore. But tonight, I needed the comfort. The illusion of luxury and control.

Padding barefoot into the kitchen, I decided to make myself dinner. Something simple, something to keep myhands busy and my mind occupied. The soft glow of the under-cabinet lights bathed the room in a warm, golden hue, the kind of light that made everything feel softer, dreamier. The faint hum of music from my phone filled the space, a soothing backdrop to the rhythmic movements of cooking.

Steam rose from the pot of boiling water on the stove as I stirred the pasta, the scent of garlic and olive oil filling the air. I moved with practiced ease, the routine comforting in its familiarity. For a moment, I almost felt normal. Almost.

And then I felt it.

That shift in the air. The subtle, electric charge that signaled I wasn’t alone.

My body tensed, every nerve ending suddenly on high alert. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. His presence was unmistakable, a dark, magnetic force that seemed to pull all the oxygen from the room.

“Is this how you always dress when you think you’re alone?”

His voice cut through the quiet like a blade, smooth and sharp, laced with something that made my skin prickle. I froze, my fingers tightening around the stem of the wine glass I’d been reaching for.

“I thought you’d left,” I said, keeping my back to him. My voice sounded steadier than I felt, but my heart was racing, the blood pounding in my ears.

“Clearly.” The single word dripped with amusement, but there was an edge to it, a warning I couldn’t ignore.

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