Forward.
A slow, deliberate step that shortens the thin strip of air between our bodies until I can feel the heat radiating off him through my blouse.
He stiffens like I touched him—even though I didn’t.
Not yet.
“Father,” I murmur, letting the word glide off my tongue like smoke curling around a lit match. “Maybe I came here to be saved. Or maybe…”
My gaze lifts, lashes heavy, dangerous.
"…I traveled here for something far more captivating."
It hits him with the force of a blow.
Santino’s breath shatters out of him—raw, involuntary, entirely unholy. His hand clamps into a fist at his side. His pulse hammers so visibly in his throat I could count the beats if I wanted to.
He’s cracking.
I feel it.
I caused it.
He takes a step back on instinct—fight-or-flight firing at the same time—but I step forward, matching him breath for breath.
A soft collision of bodies—barely a brush, barely contact—
but enough.
Enough to make his restraint splinter.
His fingers shoot out, grabbing the edge of the wall beside my head instead of grabbing me, slamming against the stone with a force that echoes down the hallway. His other hand braces on his thigh, shaking with effort he can’t disguise.
He cages me without touching me.
Barely.
For now.
I exhale, the breath slow and trembling—but not from fear.
From the exquisite tension coiling low in my stomach like a secret wanting claws.
Santino drops his head toward me—just a fraction.
Enough for his forehead to hover inches from mine.
Enough for heat to lick across my skin.
Enough for me to feel the tremor in him.
“Stop,” he whispers, but the word is already failing him. His voice tears him between prayer and threat, sin and surrender. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
I smile.
Soft.
Deadly.
