The thought of the long, empty, unscheduled hours stretching out before me in this house, with them, is a thousand times more terrifying than a crime scene.
With a sigh that feels like it comes from the deepest part of my soul, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I keep the water cold. Painfully cold. Hoping it might shock my system back to normalcy. It doesn’t work. By the time I’m dressed in leggings and an oversized sweater that feels like a shield, my skin still feels too sensitive, and the world still feels a million miles away.
The penthouse is quiet when I emerge from my room. The sun has long already risen, painting the massive windows with streaks of gold. I pad barefoot toward the kitchen, following the faint scent of coffee.
I find Diego there, his back to me as he glares at the induction stove. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants that cling to the perfect curve of his ass. His tanned skin is smooth over the rippling muscles of his back, and as he moves, I see them. Two small, subtle dimples just above the dip of his lower back.
My mouth goes dry. I should turn around. I should go back to my room and wait until he’s fully dressed. I should?—
“You’re burning it again,” I say instead, my voice coming out huskier than intended.
Diego turns, surprise flickering across his face before it settles into a warm smile. “Buenos días, bella durmiente.” He gestures at the stove with the spatula in his hand. “This stove is a monstruo.”
I step closer, peering around him at what appears to be smoldering ruins of what might have once been toast. “What did it do to deserve your wrath this time?”
“Exist,” he grumbles, stabbing at the buttons on the control panel. “Manual es para débiles.”
A laugh escapes me. “You used the pasta setting when you made me that delicious meal!”
“Sí, and it was perfecto.” He turns to me with a smirk that makes my stomach flip. “But toast? Imposible.”
I shake my head, a real smile finally touching my lips. “You’re all hopeless. Here, let me.”
I step up to the island, right next to where he’s standing, and reach for the control panel on the stove. “Here, let me hel?—”
My words die in my throat. I’m suddenly, intensely aware of how close we are. My arm is brushing against his, the side of my hip pressed against his thigh. I can feel the solid, radiating heat of his body.
He goes completely still beside me. I hear his breath hitch, a sharp, audible sound in the quiet kitchen.
His scent explodes. The warm, inviting cardamom deepens into the aroma of toasted spice, smoky and rich, with a sharp edge that makes my head spin. My knees wobble, and my free hand instinctively grips the counter to steady myself. The claiming mark he left on my neck pulses, and a corresponding clench low in my belly makes my underwear instantly damp.
What in the fuck.
Without looking at me, his hand comes down to rest on the counter, just inches from mine. Then the other. He’s not touching me, but he has me bracketed, his large frame a solid wall to my right, his arms creating a cage on either side of me. I am completely, utterly boxed in.
I can feel the tension coiling in his muscles as he holds himself perfectly still, fighting for control.
“Careful, cariño,” he murmurs, his lips grazing my ear. “I don’t read manuals... but I do bite.”
A shiver rolls through me, so intense I can’t suppress the small, needy sound that escapes my throat. My head tips back, exposing my neck on pure instinct. His growl is pure filth, a dark, possessive rumble that vibrates from his chest into mine.
“Diego,” I breathe, my voice barely a whisper.
His hands slide from the counter to my hips, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp. His lips brush the sensitive spot just below my ear, not quite a kiss, but a promise of one.
“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmurs, his voice rough. “The way you smell? The way you look at me with those big eyes?”
I shake my head, unable to form words. My body is on fire, every nerve ending screaming for his touch. One of his hands slides up, trailing a path of heat from my hip to my waist, then higher, stopping just below my breast. My nipples tighten in anticipation, desperate for his touch.
“I think you do,” he continues, his accent thicker now. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing to all of us.”
His other hand slides lower, his fingers splaying across my lower abdomen, just above the waistband of my leggings. So close to where I need him, yet nowhere near close enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, his breath hot against my neck. “Tell me this isn’t what you want.”
The toaster dings.
We freeze, the sudden, mundane sound jarring us back to reality. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. His hands are still on me, his body still pressed against mine, both of us breathing hard like we’ve been running.
