My mouth goes dry.
She's beautiful. Not in the polished, calculated way of the women who usually orbit my world. But raw. Real. Standing there half-undressed and furious and responding to me despite every word coming out of her mouth.
It takes her three full seconds to move. To shakily cross her arms over her chest, breathing hard, but the damage is done. I've seen. And she knows I've seen.
"You—you just—" She's struggling for words, her voice unsteady.
I should step back. Should walk out before this goes somewhere we can't come back from.
But I don't move.
"Never wear another man's clothes in my house." My voice comes out low, rough, barely controlled. "You're mine now, Bianca. Not his. Mine. And I won't be disrespected in my own home."
"This is ridiculous," she whispers, but her voice trembles, and she still hasn't backed away. “We’re not together.”
I step closer—too close—close enough that I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath her arms. Close enough to smell that vanilla scent mixed with something else now. Fear. Arousal.
I reach up slowly, giving her time to move away. She doesn't.
Thank God!
My fingers brush the edge of where her arms cross, just barely grazing the soft skin there. "Your body doesn't seem to follow what your mouth is saying."
Her breath hitches, and I feel the tremor that runs through her.
"Don't," she says, but it comes out weak. Uncertain.
I lean in, my lips close to her ear. "Don't what? Don't notice how you respond when I'm close? Don't see the way your body reacts to mine?" My voice drops lower. "I notice everything, Bianca. Every blush. Every caught breath. Every time you look at me like you can't decide if you want to hit me or?—"
"Stop." She shoves at my chest with one hand, the other still covering herself. "Just stop."
The push is weak, but it's enough to remind me where the line is.
Where I'm standing right on the edge of crossing it.
I step back, putting necessary distance between us, even though everything in me is screaming to close it again and fuck her senseless.
"Get dressed," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "In something that isn't his. And tomorrow, you wear what I tell you to wear."
I turn and walk out before she can respond.
Before I can change my mind.
The door closes behind me, and I stand in the hallway, breathing hard, trying to get my pulse under control. I’m hard as a fucking stone.
That was a mistake.
Touching her. Getting that close. Seeing her like that.
But God, the look in her eyes—defiance and desire—it's going to haunt me for days.
I head for my office, pour myself some water, and drain it in one go.
Bianca Mancini is going to be a problem.
A much bigger problem than I anticipated.
And I have no idea how to fix it without making everything worse.
