He’s danger wrapped in an impeccably tailored suit that does nothing to hide the predatory grace of his frame. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair pushed back from a face that belongs on a Renaissance painting of fallen angels. Sharp cheekbones. A jaw that could cut glass. And those gray eyes. I inhale sharply. Dark as sin with flecks of silver that catch the candlelight. Mesmerizing.
Electricity skates over my senses, ice and fire melding together until I can’t tell if I’m freezing or burning alive. My skin prickles with awareness, every nerve ending suddenly, violently awake.
And then his scent reaches me, replacing the cloying sweetness of roses that has saturated my nostrils for hours with something warm and exotic. Cedar and smoke and raw male power that makes my knees threaten to buckle.
He moves into the room with the unhurried confidence of a man who owns every space he enters. The candlelight plays across his features, casting shadows that only make him more devastating.
“Please tell me, little dove.” His voice is velvet over gravel, the kind of voice that could convince you to do terrible things and thank him for the privilege. He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.“Tell me, and I’ll bring you the heart of the person who has caused your tears.”
The words should sound like a line. A practiced seduction from a man who probably collects women the way other men collect watches.
But the way he’s looking at me—like he means every syllable, like he would actually carve out a beating heart and lay it at my feet if I only asked—makes my breath catch.
I swipe at my damp cheeks with the back of my hand, suddenly aware of how I must look. Mascara-streaked. Red-eyed. Standing in a torn dress in the middle of a secret room where desperate women come to beg for miracles. And a room I have not paid to enter.
“That’s quite an offer,” I manage, and I’m proud that my voice doesn’t crack. “Do you make it to all the crying women you find lurking in dark rooms?”
Something flickers in those midnight eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or appreciation.
His smile is slow, sexy as fuck, and has my insides quivering. For one night I wish I could forget who I am. He moves toward me with the unhurried confidence of a man who has never been denied anything in his life. Each step is deliberate, measured, like a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run.
“Only the ones brave enough to rip apart their own dresses to write wishes on expensive silk.” His gaze drops to the ragged hem of my gown, and when it returns to my face, there’s a new heat there that makes my stomach clench. “That takes a particular kind of desperation. The kind I find... intriguing.”
My chin lifts despite the trembling in my limbs. “Maybe I’m just bad at planning ahead.”
“Or maybe,” he takes another step closer, and I feel the warmth radiating from his body like standing too close to a flame, “you’re exactly the kind of woman who does whatever it takes to survive. Those are my favorite kind.”
I take a shaky breath.
I should step back. I should remember that I don’t know this man, that I’m vulnerable and alone and probably making the worst decision of a night already full of terrible decisions.
But something about him roots me to the spot. Something about the way he’s looking at me—like I’m not a pawn or a possession, but something far more interesting—makes me want to stay exactly where I am.
“I wish…” The words escape before I can stop them, hanging in the charged air between us.
His eyes darken with an intensity that steals my breath. “Yes? You wish what?”
I swallow hard, my heart racing for entirely different reasons now. “I wish I knew who you are.” My voice comes out breathier than I intend.
The smile that curves his lips is slow, devastating, and promises absolutely nothing good.
“Careful, little dove,” he murmurs, reaching up to brush a tear from my cheek with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about him. “Wishes have a way of coming true around here. And some prices are higher than others.”
His touch lingers for just a moment too long before he withdraws, and I’m left standing there with my pulse thundering and my skin burning where his fingers grazed my face.
He leans in close. His wide body blocks the entire room from view. My world narrows down to only him. His mouth finds the soft slope of my jawline, and I tilt my head to offer more skin for his welcomed kiss. Warm lips press against my flushed skin.I shudder in a breath and take in the new experience. My hand comes up to caress the line of his jaw.
Smooth. Chiseled. I inhale deeply and commit his scent to memory.
“Tell me your name,” I urge. “I’ll give you one in return. Might be mine, might be the name of the man who made me cry.”
I’m feeling brave again.
He steps back, giving me room to breathe, but his eyes never leave mine. His smile is nearly my undoing.
“Rafael Milano,” he murmurs so damn seductively the virgin walls of my pussy clench.
He fingers the fringe of my shawl like he wants to use it to pull me full within his grasp. I’m up for it, but I’m also scared he’ll remove the shield I have in place to keep people from asking too many questions. I don’t need the truth of my life bursting this sexy bubble.
