“Do you have his number, then? The Fed,” I clarified. “Maybe I’ll reach out to him.”
His lips parted like he was about to say something else, but then he hesitated. Like he was just now realizing where he was.
Inside.
Alonewithme.
His eyes skimmed between mine, then to my lips. “I’m not giving you his number.”
“Oh?” I arched a brow, taking a slow step forward. “Afraid I’ll embarrass you? Or worse, worried I might actually like him?”
His tongue ran along his teeth, the muscle in his jaw working as he stared at me. “You’d eat the poor man alive.”
I couldn’t help the slow smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth.
I hated how much I liked the sound of that. He wasn’t wrong. Jonathan was too sweet, too neat, probably still called his mom every Sunday, listened to finance podcasts on purpose, and got emotional over his fantasy football league. In other words, he was everything I’d bulldoze without even trying and then spend a solid two weeks feeling guilty about afterward.
But Marco? Marco wasn’t a nice man.
He was something else entirely. Something messy and complicated, a little mean. He wasn’t boyfriend material; he was the one-night stand you regretted enjoying. The fight you picked just to feel alive.
“You’re probably right,” I finally admitted.
I tilted my head, watching the way his jaw tightened again as if he were barely holding back. He didn’t respond. He just stood there quietly, giving nothing away.
“But I thinkyou,” I said, dragging my hand to his tie and pulling on it gently, “could handle me just fine.” I said this quietly—too quietly, probably. Quiet enough that it felt morehonest than I meant for it to, less like flirting and more like admitting something I’d rather keep hidden.
“No,” he murmured gently.
“No?” I whispered back, suddenly aware of how close we were standing; how his breath ghosted warmly against my cheek
He looked at me like he wanted to kiss me.
“You’re too messy,” he argued.
My heart twisted slightly. “I know what I want, lawyer. That doesn’t make me messy.”
“It makes youimpulsive,” he corrected.
“If impulse scares you, maybe you’re not the man I thought you were.”
I waited for him to pull away. He didn’t, so I tugged on his tie even more—not to provoke him, not to force it, but because I wanted to know if he’d stay still or lean in.
And he leaned in.
He could pretend all he wanted—that he was above this, above me—but when it was just us, when it was quiet enough that even our breathing sounded loud, his body remembered what his mouth refused to say.
He wanted me, and it was killing him.
I stepped back, pulling him with me, backing us into the wall or the door or the edge of some invisible line we kept pretending we wouldn’t cross. I didn’t care to look.
He hated it. I could see it right there in the knot between his brows. He was furious with himself for giving in to me.
His hands slid up, threading into my hair and pulling my head back. My scalp tingled from how gently he did it. He knew he couldn’t trust himself if he grabbed me any harder. It was as if he were holding me in place to keep himself from ruining me completely.
The moment his fingers settled on the back of my head, that was when it felt like I couldn’t breathe anymore. It was the wayhis thumbs traced the edges of my jaw that really pulled me in. It felt like he was admiring me in a way I’d never felt before.
And now I really couldn’t breathe. Not from nerves, but from the realization Marco already knew how this was going to end. That this wasn’t a choice—not anymore. Not for either of us.
