He stands in front of me, his gaze taking in my bare breasts. I can feel myself blushing again, but I don't cover myself. I let him look. His eyes slide over to the mark on my side, the one already starting to turn a shade of purple.
He reaches out and gently traces the outline of the mark with a finger. It sends a shiver down my spine.
"Did I hurt you?" he asks, his voice laced with concern.
I shake my head. "No," I say softly. "I liked it."
His eyes darken. "You liked being marked?"
I nod. "I liked being marked by you."
He seems to accept that. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to the mark, then another to my shoulder.
Instead of helping me put my bra on, he picks up my sweater and pulls it over my head. It's intimate, this act of getting dressed. Somehow more intimate than the primal sex we just had.
He's quiet as he helps me dress. He doesn't try to talk. He doesn't try to explain. He's just present, a steady, calming presence that is exactly what I need.
When I'm dressed, he picks up my shoes and kneels in front of me. He takes my foot in his hand, his thumb gently stroking my arch. He slides my shoe on, then repeats the process with the otherfoot.
My breath catches in my throat. This simple act of service, of devotion, is more powerful than any words he could say. My throat is tight with unshed tears.
I watch him as he gets dressed. He moves with an easy grace that is captivating. He's a predator, a man of power and influence, but in this moment, he's just a man. A man who is as affected by what happened between us as I am.
When he's dressed, he walks over to my desk and picks up the files I was looking at earlier. He puts them in my bag, along with my laptop and a few other things.
He turns back to me and must see the wetness in my eyes. He sets the bag down and comes to me.
"I know," he says reassuringly. "This is all very new to you, and it's going to feel like a lot. But I'm not going anywhere, okay?" He uses a finger to wipe away the tear I didn't know had fallen.
I nod, my breath hitching as I try to hold in my tears. I am overwhelmed by everything I am feeling for him. The attraction, the lust, the tenderness, the overwhelming need to be near him.
He picks up my bag and takes my hand. "Let's go home."
I put my hand in his, trusting him once again.
Chapter Eighteen
Roberto
I wake to weight and warmth and the steady push-pull of her breathing against my ribs.
Olivia is half on her stomach, one arm flung across me, fingers lax against my side. Her hair is spread over my pillow, still damp in the thicker sections from the shower I gave her last night when we got in.
The ends curl a little where water held on while we slept. She smells like my soap and her skin and something sweet that is inherently hers.
The room is dim and quiet. It takes a second for my head to sort memory from dream. Then it all threads back together in a line: the office door, her mouth opening under mine, the drive that felt both seconds and hours long, her silence like a tide receding, my hands gentle in her hair while the warm water rained on us, my mouth at her temple when she finally let go. The way she climbed into my bed and hooked a thigh over mine, pressed her face to my chest, and clung.
By the time her body softened, she was too tired to cry. I could feel it, though. What happened between us last night was entirely new for her, and that lent itself to feelings that swept in after the haze passed. Feelings of shame and embarrassment, maybe regret.
I let my palm settle on her back now, slow and careful, and draw one pass over the length of her spine. She doesn’t wake. She makes a sound in her sleep that is not quite a sigh.
I lift my head to glance at the clock on the dresser and wince. I lost track of the day and the hour last night. Not a surprise.
It happens when I stop running lists in my head and start listening to my body. It never happens, which is why I didn’t account for this one exception.
Shame is a morning animal. I know that truth too well. It likes the light of day, where everything is on display, and clearer minds prevail.
It likes to crawl into your chest and mind and whisper that you were reckless, that you were foolish, that you’ll feel regret.
