“How did you get in here?” I demanded.
Nothing.
I made the question more specific. “How did you get into my room?”
“Does it really matter?”
No, I guess it didn’t. “Can you at least tell me who you are?”
“I apologize.” His steps were silent as he moved closer to the bed and into the faint light shining in from the bathroom.
I’d only seen him twice before, and he was dressed differently this time—in black cargo pants and a long-sleeved black shirt with a high neckline instead of a suit—so it took me a second to realize who it was. “Tristan?”
Dark eyes, nearly hidden in shadows, traveled down my body before they found their way back up to my face. He didn’t say anything, but I didn’t miss the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard.
Shit. Shit. My blood chilled, and the next words flew from my mouth before I could stop them. “Are you going to hurt me?” My mind returned to the conversation I’d heard between Gino and Milo. Was he here to get back at Gino for something? Thinking if he did something to me, it would bring the mafia capo down?
But he shook his head slightly. “No.”
Somehow, that didn’t make me feel better. Before I could ask him anything else, he spoke.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Talk?”
“Yes. Just talk.”
“About what, exactly? Because I don’t know anything. Gino doesn’t tell me anything.” I was babbling, but I couldn’t help it. Despite his assurances, my nerves were still screaming.
“Not about Gino. About you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
He went quiet again, and I tugged on the restraints. “Would you please untie me?”
Another slight shake of his head was his only answer.
As I looked around the room for help that wasn’t going to appear, I swallowed down the panic that was still threatening to rise, screaming, from my throat. “Tristan, please.” I was quickly discovering I didn’t like being restrained without my knowledge or permission. I’d never really gotten into BDSM or any kind of heavy kinks. I turned my pleading eyes back to the man beside my bed just in time to see him reaching a hand toward me.
So lightly I could barely feel them, the backs of his fingertips grazed my cheekbone and then my jaw, and I forgot all about the bonds holding me on the bed.
My voice was little more than a whisper. “What are you doing?”
His forehead furrowed in a mixture of confusion and concentration, his eyes following the trail of his fingers as they continued down the side of my throat and over my collarbone. There, they stilled. “So soft,” he whispered. “I never knew it would be so soft.”
My eyes flew to his face, and there was barely enough light for me to see his jaw clench.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” I reminded him. My heart was racing so fast now I felt lightheaded. I fought the sensation, knowing I couldn’t pass out. Not with this psychopath looking at me like he wanted to tear the skin from my body so he could pet it whenever he wanted to.
His eyes shifted from my body, locking onto mine. “Am I hurting you?” He didn’t sound concerned, only curious, which sent another shiver down my spine.
“No,” I answered honestly.
His attention dropped down to my breasts, covered only by the tank top I was wearing with my pajama shorts. “Your skin always looks so soft. Like your hair. I needed to see for myself.”
He’d touched my hair? When I was sleeping? “I’d rather you didn’t touch me. You don’t have my permission to touch me.” I wasn’t sure if there was any decent part of this guy that I would reach this way, but I had to try.
