Page 71 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

F or weeks now, Dante’s been sleeping with me. And I’ve been sleeping with him.

Literally. Sleeping.

No sex. Not that there aren’t fireworks—toe-curling kisses, eighth-grade make-outs, the whole heavy-petting package—but he’s on his best behavior.

And a bad boy on hiatus? That’s a million times worse.

Because late at night, when his body curls around mine, I feel him—hard, unrelenting against my back.

And God, it’s torture.

Do I want more? Yeah. Okay, fine. I definitely want more.

But right now? I just want to be held. To be told everything’s going to be okay.

Except I’m terrified.

His hand slides over my ever-growing belly, strong and steady. “Your blood pressure’s been up.”

That’s putting it mildly. It’s been through the roof.

“It’ll be fine,” I lie, brushing it off.

“Talk to me, Pom. Tell me anything. You can trust me.”

Trust.

Such a small word for such a heavy demand. He’s lied to me in every language—half-truths, silences, clean-cut betrayals.

One more lie and I’ll break. It’ll be over.

A sadistic side of me wants desperately to test that trust. So I do. “Did you ask for a paternity test?”

“Paternity test?” His brow arches. “Should I?” His tone is light, teasing.

He laughs it off and?—

Ugh. I can’t tell if I imagined it, or if he’s just screwing with my head. Either way, for the sake of my sanity, and my blood pressure, I let it drop.

His lips graze my ear as we lie in the dark. “The wheels in your head are keeping me up.”

Damn him. He always reads me like an open book, while I read him like a rocket science manual.

A sigh slips out, shaky. “How are we supposed to live a normal life?” My voice cracks, frustration bleeding through. “Go to movies, visit bookstores… And the Keenans?—”

“Shh.” He rolls me onto my back, his mouth crushing over mine, silencing me with a kiss. The command is soft, but it sears through me anyway.

“I’m taking care of it.”

I break for air, muttering against his lips, “How very mafia-don, don’t-worry-your-pretty-little-head of you.”

He pulls back just enough to smirk, eyes darkening. “Relax, little woman. Big, bad man’s got this.”

I snort. “Do you?”

His lips ghost mine. “Do you trust me to always take care of you—and our little girl?” he whispers.

Without thinking I say, “Yes.”

“Then trust me with this.”

We kiss, and everything else burns away until there’s only heat and breath and us.

I feel like I’ve been around the world and back with him, and yet a small, stubborn part of me still wonders if I truly know Dante D’Angelo at all.