Chapter 25
Emilia
T he spoon clinked softly against the ceramic bowl as I scooped up another bite of cereal, the faint crunch barely audible over the dramatic music blaring from the TV. I was sprawled on the couch, one leg tucked under me, the other dangling off the edge. My hair was an unwashed mess, twisted into a bun that leaned precariously to one side, and my oversized sweatshirt—one I’d stolen from my brother Tony years ago—hung off my shoulder. It was the kind of day that demanded no effort, no expectations. A day to simply exist.
The women of The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City were mid-screaming match, their perfectly manicured hands waving in the air as accusations flew back and forth like confetti. I wasn’t sure who was in the wrong, but honestly, did it even matter? The drama was delicious, the kind of train wreck you couldn’t look away from. I shoved another spoonful of cereal into my mouth, my eyes glued to the screen.
The sound of the front door opening barely registered at first. figured it was just one of my brothers returning early from their latest escapades, no doubt ready to raid the fridge and steal my remote, despite there being a dozen other TVs scattered throughout the estate. Without looking away from the TV, I called out, “If you’re here to eat all the snacks, at least have the decency to leave the ice cream alone this time.”
The response wasn’t the grumbled complaint I was expecting .
“Good to know your priorities are in order.”
I froze mid-chew, the voice unmistakably deep and smooth, laced with that infuriating edge of amusement. My head snapped toward the entryway, and there he was—Dante Conti, leaning casually against the doorframe like he belonged there. His dark suit was perfectly tailored, the top button of his shirt undone, and his tie slightly loosened. He looked like sin incarnate, and the way his lips curved into a faint smirk told me he knew it.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I blurted, nearly choking on my cereal. I scrambled to sit up straighter, brushing crumbs off my sweatshirt as if that would somehow make me look less like a total slob.
Dante raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that made my skin prickle. “Nice to see you too, princess.”
“The guards let me in,” Dante said with infuriating calm, brushing imaginary lint off the sleeve of his perfectly tailored jacket. “I have clearance.”
Clearance. Of course, he did. My father trusted Dante Conti more than most people in this world, which was both unsurprising and entirely maddening.
“Well, he’s not here,” I said, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. “And neither is anyone else. So if you could just—”
I didn’t even get the chance to finish. Dante stepped further into the room, his movements deliberate, his presence shifting the air as if he belonged here, as if he had every right to ignore me completely.
Before I could protest, he lowered himself onto the couch beside me, so close I could feel the faint heat radiating from him. He leaned back like this was his house, like this was his couch, draping one arm casually over the backrest. His long legs stretched out in front of him, utterly at ease and entirely unbothered by the glare I was giving him.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, my voice rising an octave. “You can’t just make yourself at home!”
“Why not?” he asked, his tone maddeningly calm. “It’s a workday. Why aren’t you at work?”
I blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Why aren’t you?”
“I am,” he said, gesturing around the room. “This is me working.”
I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing as I tried to come up with a response. “You’re unbelievable,” I muttered, finally settling on the only thing that felt appropriate.
Dante’s smirk widened, and he nodded toward the TV. “What are we watching?”
I hesitated, torn between kicking him out and indulging his sudden interest. Finally, I sighed, deciding it was easier to just go along with it. “ The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City .”
He frowned, his brow furrowing slightly. “What is it, like a cooking show?”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. The sound bubbled out of me before I could stop it, and I immediately regretted it when his smirk turned smug. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s not a cooking show. It’s...well, it’s hard to explain. You just have to watch.”
Dante raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he settled back into the couch, his attention shifting to the screen. I tried to focus on the show, but his proximity was impossible to ignore. The heat of him wrapped around me, making it hard to breathe.
As the episode played on, Dante started asking questions. At first, they were dismissive, almost mocking. “Why are they fighting over a birthday party?” “Do they always drink this much?” “Is that her real face?” But as the minutes passed, his tone shifted, the questions becoming more genuine. “Wait, why is she mad at her? Didn’t they just make up?” “Who’s the one with the blonde hair?” “Is that her husband?”
I found myself answering, explaining the tangled web of alliances and betrayals that made up the show’s plot. To my surprise, Dante seemed genuinely interested, his sharp eyes flicking between the screen and me as he absorbed every detail .
By the time the episode ended, he was leaning closer, his arm brushing against mine in a way that felt deliberate. I glanced at him, my pulse quickening as I realized just how close he’d gotten. His dark eyes met mine, and for a moment, neither of us said anything.
“Do you want to watch another?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
Dante’s gaze lingered on me, his lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile. “Sure,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “Why not?”
I reached for the remote, but before I could press play, I felt his hand on my thigh. The touch was light, almost casual, but it sent a jolt of electricity through me. My breath hitched, and I turned to look at him, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Dante—”
“Relax,” he murmured, his fingers tracing small, deliberate circles against my skin. His voice was soft, almost soothing, but there was an edge to it, a promise of something more. “I’m just getting comfortable.”
My mind raced, a thousand thoughts colliding all at once. I should have pushed him away, should have told him to leave, but instead, I found myself leaning into his touch, my body betraying me in the worst possible way.
Dante’s hand remained on my thigh, his fingers a warm, steady presence that made it impossible to think straight. My pulse thrummed in my ears, drowning out the sound of the TV and the faint hum of the air conditioning. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as if the world had shrunk to just the two of us and the space between us that was rapidly disappearing.
I should have said something—anything. A sharp retort, a sarcastic quip, a demand for him to leave. But the words caught in my throat, tangled with the heat that spread through my body like wildfire. Instead, I stared at him, my breath shallow, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
“Are you always this jumpy?” Dante asked, his voice low and teasing, his thumb brushing against my leg in a way that felt far too intimate for someone who had just barged into my house uninvited.
“Dante,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Hmm?” he murmured, his fingers tracing small, deliberate circles against my thigh
“What are you doing?” I asked, though the question sounded weak even to my own ears.
“Getting comfortable,” he said, his voice low and smooth, his gaze fixed on mine. “Is that a problem?”
Yes. No. Maybe. I didn’t know anymore. All I knew was that his touch was setting my skin on fire, and the way he was looking at me—like I was the only thing in the room that mattered—was making it impossible to think straight.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said finally, though my voice lacked conviction.
Dante’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Probably not,” he agreed, his hand sliding just a fraction lower. “But since when do you care about good ideas, princess?”
Before I could respond, his fingers brushed against the bare skin just a fraction away from my core, and my breath hitched. The tension between us crackled like a live wire, and I knew, in that moment, that I was in over my head.
The heat between us was palpable, a storm brewing in the air. His caress set my body on fire, igniting a craving that I never knew existed. As he traced his fingers along my skin, my resistance crumbled like sand against the tide.
I couldn't control my own body, and I knew that. So, why was I letting him do this to me? It didn't make any sense.
The show faded into the background, replaced by the sound of our heavy breathing and the soft rustle of fabric as we moved closer together. The taste of cereal lingering on my tongue mixed with a new, more potent flavor—anxiety and desire tangling in my mouth.
Dante leaned in closer, his lips just a whisper away from mine, and I felt the ground shift beneath me. Nothing had prepared me for this—the intensity of his gaze, the way he made me feel like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
My heart pounded in my chest as he brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, his hand grazing the side of my neck before tracing a path down to my collarbone. My skin erupted into goosebumps at his touch, and I closed my eyes, lost in the sensation.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" he murmured against my skin, his voice low and raspy.
Something inside me snapped. I didn't know what he was doing or why he was here or how it would all end, but I wanted it anyway.
"Yes," I whispered back, opening my eyes to meet his gaze. "Please."
He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching mine for some answer that I couldn't give him. And then he kissed me—a slow, intense press of lips against lips that stole my breath and left me reeling. He tasted like sugar and sin and something so bitter-sweet that it made my head spin. And then he was pulling me closer to him, his fingers curling around my hips, dragging me onto his lap.
I arched against him, my body responding instinctively to his touch, to the hunger that blazed in his eyes. His hands roamed over my skin, igniting a fire that consumed all rational thought. The world around us faded away, leaving only the two of us locked in a dance of desire and need.
His fingers found their way beneath the fabric of my shirt, sending shivers down my spine as he explored every inch of me. Each touch was like a lightning strike, jolting me with pleasure as I surrendered to the intoxicating pull between us.
I gasped as his lips left mine to trail hot kisses along my jawline, down my neck, setting my skin ablaze with each feather-light caress. The room spun around us, a whirlwind of sensation and want that threatened to consume us both.
His hand slipped lower, teasingly close to where I ached for his touch the most. I whimpered softly, unable to contain the desperate need that I felt welling up inside me. He chuckled, low and wicked, before pressing his fingers against me through my yoga pants, igniting a flame that spread through my core. I cried out, unable to help myself, as he pushed me closer to the edge of pleasure. I couldn't help but press myself deeper against his hand, willing the fabric of my pants to evaporate and bring us closer.
"Such a greedy girl," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. I bucked against his hand, desperate for more, my body arching into him in a futile attempt to ease the ache that was building deep within me.
“More,” I pleaded.
He smirked, his eyes glinting with wicked intent as he pulled back slightly, slipping the waistband of my pants down. I gasped at the cool air that met my skin as he slid them down my hips, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in his grasp.
He leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear as he whispered, "No panties...how very naughty." His fingers traced the edge of my exposed skin, sending shivers up my spine with each stroke.
My heart raced in my chest as I savored the intimacy of this moment: his skin on my skin, his body pressed close to mine. It was a feeling I had never experienced before, this intense longing for another person's touch. But I didn't care about anything else. Right now, all that mattered was the warmth of his body, our breaths in sync, and the way he made me feel alive like never before.
Just the ghost of his fingertips brush over my swollen, pulsing nub, and I almost screamed from the frustration of it. But then—fuck—he pressed harder, circling me with a rhythm so slow and deliberate it felt like torture. My hips bucked again instinctively, grinding into his hand, but he pulled back, chuckling darkly like the sadistic bastard he is.
“Stay still,” he growled, his voice rough and low, sending shivers down my spine. I whimpered, trying to obey, but my body was on fire, every nervescreaming for more. He dragged his fingers through my soaking folds, gathering my slick and smearing it over my clit. The jolt of pleasure is electric, and I clenched around nothing, my pussy begging to be filled.
Finally, he gives in. One thick finger plunged into me without warning, stretching me open, and I gasped at the sudden invasion. He worked it in and out, slow at first, then faster, hitting that sensitive spot inside me that makes my toes curl and my vision blur. I barely catch my breath before another finger slips in beside the first, stretching me even more, and I can't help but cry out as the intense pleasure surged through my body.
I begged for more, my voice raspy and my hands grasping at the fabric of his shirt. He smirked at me, his eyes filled with desire, and added a third finger inside of me. The sensation was almost overwhelming - my body tightened around him, eager to squeeze out every bit of pleasure from his forceful movements.
I reached for his cock, desperate to feel the hard, throbbing bulge in his pants, but he slapped my hand away with a sharp crack. “Not yet,” he rumbled, his voice dripping with dominance. “Right now is all about you, my filthy girl.”
The bastard had the audacity to smirk down at me, his eyes dark and possessive as he curled those thick digits just right, scraping against my g-spot with a precision that made my thighs shake.
"You’re not coming until I say so," he growled.
I rolled my eyes, feigning nonchalance, even as my pussy spasmed around his fingers. "I’ll come whenever I want."
Big fucking mistake.
In one swift motion, he nearly pulled his fingers all the way out, leaving just the tips teasing my soaked entrance. I whimpered, my hips jerking up instinctively, desperate for him to plunge back inside me. But he just chuckled, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face.
"That’s what I thought," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Now, where were we?"
He slammed his fingers back into me, deeper this time, hungrier. Every thrust was deliberate, punishing, and I was living for it. My legs were spread wide, my slick dripping down onto the couch as he worked me like an instrument, tuning me to the edge of orgasm and then pulling back just enough to drive me insane.
"You want it?" he demanded, his breath hot against my ear. "You want to fucking come?"
I couldn’t even form words anymore. My body was trembling, my cunt aching, and all I could do was nod like a fucking desperate mess.
"Say it," he commanded, his voice a growl that sent shivers down my spine. "Beg for it, princess."
"Please," I gasped, my voice breaking. "Please let me come, please—"
The sound of the front door opening echoes through the house, and my heart plummets. My father’s booming voice carries down the hall, followed by my brothers’ rowdy laughter. My body freezes, panic clawing at my chest, but Dante doesn’t stop.
His fingers are still buried inside me, the slap of his slicked palm against my wet mound is loud—too loud—but he doesn’t slow down. If anything, he speeds up, driving into me with a brutal, relentless rhythm that has me biting down on my fist to keep from screaming.
Dante leans over me, his hot breath fanning across my neck as he growls in my ear, his voice low and dangerous. “You better hurry up and come, baby. Unless you want them to find you like this—spread open, dripping wet, and begging for it.”
My thighs are trembling, my pussy clenching around his fingers like a vice, and I know I’m close—so damn close.
But the sound of footsteps in the hallway pulls me back. My brothers are laughing, their voices getting closer. My stomach twists with a mix of fear and thrill, my body torn between panic and pleasure .
Dante doesn’t give a single fuck. He grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back as he pounds into me harder, his hand snapping against my core with wet, rhythmic slaps. “You’re not gonna last,” he taunts, his voice rough with lust. “I can feel your tight little cunt squeezing me. You’re gonna come all over my hand, aren’t you? Yeah, you are. Fucking do it.”
I can’t hold back anymore. A moan escapes my lips as my body shudders, my orgasm crashing over me like a tidal wave. My pussy clenches around him as I ride out the most intense orgasm of my life.
“Good girl,” he growls.
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears, but Dante just smirks down at me, his fingers still buried inside me as he slowly pulls out. The sticky mess between my thighs is impossible to ignore, and I know there’s no way to hide it.
“Better clean up fast,” he says, his voice dripping with amusement as he wipes his hand down with a handkerchief before tossing it at me. “You’re a fucking mess.”
I scramble to pull my pants back up, throwing myself over the wet spot on the couch as Dante chuckles under his breath, knowing he's won this round. The sound of my brother’s voices were getting louder, and I could hear my father's heavy footsteps approaching. My heart is pounding in my chest as I quickly smooth down my hair, praying that he doesn't come in here and find me like this—exposed, spent, and drenched in lust.
"Emilia?" my father calls out, his voice close. "You home?"
"Yeah, Dad!" I call back, my voice shaky but steady.”
My father's footsteps draw even closer, the air in the room becoming thick with tension as I try to find my bearings. Dante, smirking, steps away from the couch, looking like he's just witnessed a glorious victory.
The door swings open, and my father strides in, my brothers trailing behind him.
My heart leaps into my throat as my father’s gaze lands on me, sprawled on the couch, my hair a mess and my cheeks still flushed with heat I can’t entirely blame on exertion.
“Emilia?” he says, stopping short as he takes me in. His brows knit together, not in suspicion, but mild confusion. “What are you—?”
Before I can even begin to stammer out a reply, there’s the sound of a chair shifting. Dante rises from where he’s now seated a safe distance away, his movements slow and deliberate. His expression is calm, composed, and utterly unbothered, as if he hasn’t just witnessed—or caused—my current state of disarray.
He steps forward, extending a hand toward my father with a confidence that seems to ooze from him naturally. “Mr. Ricci,” Dante greets, his voice smooth and professional. “My apologies for arriving earlier than planned. I didn’t mean to intrude. I let myself in and accidentally interrupted Emilia during her workout. She was kind enough to take a break and keep me company while I waited…quite the show, these Utah housewives.”
My father’s confusion immediately melts away, replaced by a look of approval. He clasps Dante’s hand in a firm shake, chuckling. “Not a problem at all, I gave you clearance for a reason,” he says, his booming laugh echoing through the room. “Emilia, thank you for keeping Dante entertained. But if you’re going to work out in the living room,” he adds, gesturing toward the couch. “Make sure you bathe before sprawling out like that. That’s expensive fabric.”
The room erupts with laughter as my brothers howl like hyenas. “Yeah, Emilia,” Marco teases. “Don’t go stinking up the place.”
“Can we even afford a new couch if she ruins this one?” Giuseppe chimes in, grinning ear to ear.
Heat floods my face as I sit up straighter, shooting them both a glare. “Oh, shut up,” I snap, my voice sharp enough to make them laugh even harder.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch it—a fleeting smirk tugging at the corner of Dante’s mouth, there for just a second before it disappears. He schools his features into polite neutrality so quickly I almost think I imagined it. Almost.
My father waves a dismissive hand at my brothers, their laughter fading as they walk out of the room. “All right, that’s enough,” he says, shaking his head. “Come on, Dante, let’s get to business.”
Dante steps toward the hallway, but not before casting a quick glance in my direction. His dark eyes flick to mine, holding them for just a beat too long. There’s no smirk now—his face is perfectly composed—but the spark of mischief in his gaze is unmistakable. It’s enough to send my stomach into a tailspin.
“Thank you for the entertainment, princess,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, just loud enough for me to hear. “And for being so…responsive.”
My breath catches, but before I can summon a reply, he turns and follows my father out of the room, his voice already shifting into businesslike professionalism as he engages in conversation.
I slump back against the couch, exhaling shakily. The sound of their voices drifts down the hall, fading into the distance, but the tension in the room lingers like a heavy cloud. My heart is still pounding, my cheeks still burning, and the echo of his words plays on a loop in my head.
Damn him. Damn his smug face, his talented fingers, and that infuriating ability to make me feel like I’ve already lost a game I didn’t even know we were playing.
And damn me for liking it.