He follows me in.
He slams the door shut behind us, and suddenly my tiny studio apartment feels microscopic. He’s too big for this space. Too intense. Taking up all the oxygen.
“What the hell was that?” I explode, spinning to face him. “You’re stalking me now?”
“Who was that?” His voice is low and dangerous, like he’s barely controlling himself.
“Someone who actually treats me like a human being!” The words rip out of me. “Not someone who follows me like a psychopath!”
“You think he cares about you?” Nico steps closer, crowding my space. “He doesn’t even know you.”
“And you do?” My voice cracks, and I hate it. Hate the vulnerability bleeding through. Hate that he can see it.
His expression shifts. The rage doesn’t disappear, but something raw and hungry surfaces beneath it. “I know enough.”
Before I can respond, he kisses me.
It’s not gentle. Not tender. It’s desperate and possessive, his mouth claiming mine like he’s been starving for it. Like he’s been dying for weeks and I’m the only thing that can save him.
I should push him away.
But I kiss him back just as fiercely, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer instead of shoving him away. Because apparently I’ve lost my mind completely. Because apparently my body doesn’t give a damn about professional boundaries or the fact that he juststalked me hereor any of the very valid reasons I should be kicking him out.
You’re an idiot.
A complete and total idiot.
His hands find my hips, gripping hard enough to bruise. Then he’s lifting me, and my legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and he’s carrying me toward my bedroom like I weigh nothing.
“Nico—”
“Don’t.” He kicks the bedroom door shut behind us. “Don’t tell me to stop.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
He presses me against the bedroom door, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand. His grip is firm. Not gentle. His eyes burn into mine, and his breathing is ragged.
“You let him touch you?” he asks.
“He didn’t—” I begin.
“His hands wereon you.” Not a question. An accusation. “All fucking night. I watched him touch your hand, lean in close, make you laugh.”
Oh my God. He watched the whole thing.
“You sat outside the wine bar.” My voice comes out breathless. “For how long?”
“Long enough.”
His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and I gasp. He bites down, not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough tomark. To claim.
“This is insane,” I manage. “You know that, right? This is completely—”
“I know.” He tears at my dress. Literally tears it. The fabric rips beneath his hands, and I should be furious because this dress cost me seventy dollars on sale, but instead I’m gasping as cool air hits my skin.
“That was my favorite—”
