“Okay. Anything.”
“Stop agreeing without knowing what I’m going to ask you,” I snap.
“But I’d do anything to help you.”
I freeze. Stare at her. Feel her words pluck at things in my chest, things that make me feel off-balance. I close my eyes and tip my head back. “I feel the same way about you. Which is why I’m going out of my fucking mind not knowing how hurt you are.” I glance at the hem of her shirt again, feeling my jaw tighten with concern. “Please, Carla.”
Sighing, she nods, before gingerly working her shirt up her frame.
I’m right there, helping her pull it over her head, before I drop to my knees in front of her. Wedging my frame between her thighs, I lean closer, inspecting the nasty bruise. It’s blooming along the side of her body, a deep purplish blue that disappears beneath her sports bra. The edges are swollen, outlining the bruise in a pinkish red color.
“Fuck,” I mutter. My fingertips trace over her discolored skin and horror washes over me. “Carla.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not fucking okay. I’m going to?—”
“You promised.”
“I don’t care.”
She snorts and shakes her head. Placing her hand over mine, she says, “I promise, I can handle this.”
“I know you can, but you shouldn’t have to,” I admit, my voice breaking. “No one should treat you like this. On purpose. Intentionally.” I shake my head, dragging my fingers over her skin again.
She shivers from my touch and I note the goose bumps that ripple over the surface of her skin.
“Cucciola,” I murmur, unable to tear my eyes away from her taut abdomen, the delicious curve of her hip, the smooth skin of her frame. God, she’s tempting. And after the hellish week I’ve had, my patience is long gone.
Her breathing hitches but she doesn’t move an inch.
I continue my assessment of her bruise, my fingers exploring now. My touch feathers out over her bruise, across her stomach, around her hip. Her hips twitch, practically imperceptibly, but I note it.
The air around us tightens, charged with anticipation. Need. Release.
Control.
Part of me wants to jump to my feet, grab my bike, and ride. Get the hell out of the city and let the cool wind whip some sense into my mind. But the other part of me…
My mouth arcs over her body. My movements are slow, giving Carla plenty of time to put a stop to this. She drags her fingers through my curls instead and I close my eyes at her touch. Then, my mouth brushes over her injury. I drag my mouth up her bruise, pressing kisses to every part of pain that asshole caused her.
She sucks in another breath, her hand fisting in my hair. Her nails scratch the back of my head and I shudder. The moment is so fucking tender, it causes emotion to swell right along with my physical desire.
In this moment, I want Carla García more than oxygen. More than all my fucked-up excuses. More than anything.
“Luca,” she moans as I shift up her frame. I drag my body up, dropping one knee to the outside of her thigh and half kneeling on the couch.
Hovering over her, I gaze into her eyes, making sure she wants this as much as I’m fucking craving it. “Tell me to stop.”
She shakes her head. Holding my gaze, she reaches up and grasps the chain around my neck. A crucifix hangs from the gold chain and her fingers wrap around it, tugging me closer.
I move over her. She lifts her face. And then, my mouth is on hers.
I kiss her softly. Once, twice. Then, her lips part and she invites me in. My tongue slips inside her mouth, meeting with hers, and I moan.
Fuck, she’s sweet. Perfect. Everything.
Carla angles her neck and I cup her cheek, my palm holding her face. My fingertips slip into her hair as I deepen our kiss. Our kiss turns needy, desperate.
