“Again,” he says.
This time, I hesitate. Not because I don’t want it…but because I do. Because something about the way he’s standing there, steady and quiet and unyielding, feels more intimate than anything else we’ve done.
He doesn’t ask twice. The second bite is already at my lips. I open my mouth again. He feeds me slower this time, thumbbrushing a stray drop of syrup from the corner of my mouth before it falls. The touch lingers. Warm. Careful. Not careless at all.
That’s when everything shifts: the air, the distance, the fragile balance we’ve been pretending to keep.
It should mean nothing. It doesn’t.
His fingers pause at my mouth, brushing over my bottom lip like he’s considering putting them in. My breath hitches, but I don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t give him any excuse to stop.
His thumb drags across my lip again—slower this time. Rough pad against soft skin. I part my lips before I realize it, and he watches my mouth like he’s thinking about all the ways he could use it.
That’s all it takes. The next second, his mouth crashes into mine.
It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s filthy and fucking hot. His tongue slides between my lips with zero hesitation, deep and dirty, like he wants to taste the inside of my throat. I moan into it—helpless, humiliated by how fast I give in. He drinks it down.
I taste the vodka on his tongue. Salt and heat. Smoke. The smell of him is all over me: spice, sweat, and the faint sting of something burning.
His hand fists in my hair. Tight. Controlling. He tilts my head the way he wants it, mouth slanting harder over mine like he’s trying to fuck the kiss deeper. Like he’s claiming space.
My hands shoot back to the counter just to keep balance. Cold marble against my palms. His body crowding mine, hips pressing into my stomach—and fuck, he’s hard. He groans when I arch into him, low and rough, like he hates how good it feels.
I should stop him. But I don’t.
I suck on his tongue instead, and he growls. His hand tightens in my hair, dragging another moan out of me, and suddenly, I can’t think. Can’t breathe. I want him to pull me ontothe counter, rip my shirt open, get his hand between my legs and…
He pulls back. Just like that. His forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing hard. His jaw’s tight. His pupils are blown.
He wants this. Wants me. But he’s already shutting it down.
“It’s late,” he says, voice thick. “Go back to bed.”
“Nicolo—”
“Now.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
He steps away before I can beg, before I can push again, and the space between us goes cold fast. I stand still, then grab my glass, fingers trembling enough to piss me off. My thighs are shaking. My panties are fucking soaked.
I walk out without another word. The hallway feels darker on the way back. My lips are swollen. My skin burns where he touched me. Duchess is still asleep on the chair when I get to my room.
I sit on the bed, pressing my hand to my mouth. I can still taste him. Strawberries. Vodka. Regret.
“I know,” I whisper into the dark.
36
NICOLO
Fausto Mancini’s voice drones through the receiver, slick and practiced, every word calculated.
I stare out the window as he talks, the night bleeding into the horizon like it’s trying to swallow the world whole.
“Your end of the deal looks promising,” he says. “Our shipment comes in by Friday. I want your men there—quietly.”
“Your ‘quiet’ and mine don’t mean the same thing,” I reply, tone even.
