Page 52 of Made for Saints

“And you’re blushing,” he counters smoothly, his grin widening. “Which tells me I’m right.”

I whip my head toward him, glaring. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Oh, I know plenty,” he says, his voice low and smug. “Like the fact that you’re more fun than you let on. You might play the part of the obedient little Ricci princess, but underneath it…” He shakes his head, his smirk turning almost predatory. “You’re dying to break the rules. I bet you’ve been breaking them for years.”

I glare at him, my hands curling into fists in my lap. “You’re insufferable.”

Dante’s laugh fades, but the smirk lingers, his eyes flicking toward me as he navigates the city streets with infuriating ease. He’s too comfortable, too in control, and it sets my teeth on edge. I hate that he’s so good at getting under my skin. Hate that he knows it, too.

“So, tell me,” he says, breaking the silence, his tone casual but with that telltale edge of mischief. “Do all good girls get waxes, or is that just you?”

I whip my head toward him, my mouth falling open. “What is wrong with you?”

He grips the steering wheel tightly as his eyes narrow, calculating. “Just an observation. You don’t seem like the type to do things halfway, princess. And waxing? That takes real commitment.”

I refuse to let his words get under my skin and cross my arms over my chest defensively. “You’re insufferable.”

“Am I wrong?” he taunts, a smirk spreading across his face. “Good girls don’t usually go for the full treatment. They’re too...restrained. Too proper. But bad girls? They like to keep things interesting.”

My cheeks burn with anger and I grit my teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I think I do,” he says, his tone dropping low and dangerous. "Naughty girls like to keep it clean and slick. Always ready for action."

I feel a surge of rage building in my chest and can’t help but snap at him. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet, here you are,” he counters smoothly, his gaze meeting mine in a charged moment that sends shivers down my spine. “Makes me wonder...”

“Wonder what?” I shoot back, my voice sharper than intended.

He leans back in his seat, exuding confidence and arrogance as he toys with the gearshift. “Whether you’re really as good as you pretend to be...or if there’s a bad girl hiding under all that attitude.”

Our eyes lock in a battle of wills, the air thick with tension between us. My heart races in anticipation, each beat pulsing through my body like a warning sign. I know I should shut this down, demand he take me home and never speak to him again. But something inside me craves this dangerous game we're playing, and I find myself leaning closer to him, barely above a whisper when I reply.

“Sometimes.”

His smirk falters, just for a second, replaced by something sharper, hungrier. “Sometimes?”

I nod slowly, my pulse racing. “Sometimes I like being bad.”

The silence that follows is deafening. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel, his jaw clenching as he exhales through parted lips. He drags a hand through his hair, the motion pulling his shirt taut against his chest and revealing a sliver oftanned, toned skin above the waistband of his pants. The sight sends a jolt of heat straight through me, and I quickly look away, cursing myself for noticing.

Dante doesn’t say anything for a moment, but I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough, like gravel scraping against silk.

“Careful, Emilia. You might not like what happens when you play bad.”

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “Maybe I’m not afraid.”

His laugh is soft, humorless, and it sends a shiver down my spine. “You should be.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t. Instead, I stare out the window, watching the city blur past as I try to steady my breathing. The tension in the car is suffocating, but I can’t bring myself to break it. It’s like a rubber band stretched to its limit, and I’m terrified of what will happen when it snaps.

“Here we are,” Dante says suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

I blink, realizing we’ve arrived at the salon. The neon sign for “Barely There Waxing Lounge” glows obnoxiously bright against the gray morning sky, and I resist the urge to groan. Of all the places to have this conversation, why did it have to be here?

Dante pulls into a parking spot, killing the engine with a flick of his wrist. He turns to me, his smirk firmly back in place. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, princess. I’d hate to have to come in and see what all the fuss is about.”

I glare at him, grabbing my bag and opening the door with more force than necessary. “You’re not funny.”

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