“Don't change the subject.” I advanced toward her, watching as she took a step back. “Who is sending you flowers, Cecelia? Who misses seeing you so damn much?”
“It's not—” She shook her head, running a hand through her damp hair. “It's not what you think.”
“Then explain it to me.” Another step closer. “Because from where I'm standing, it looks like my wife is receiving love notes in my house after merely a day of marriage.”
She attempted to push past me. “I don't have to explain anything to you.”
I caught her wrist, my fingers circling the slick skin before she could escape. Her pulse raced beneath my touch, hummingbird-fast and frantic. Heat radiated from her body, and this close, I could smell her—perfume and something uniquely Cecelia that made my head swim.
“You're not running away this time,” I warned, tightening my grip slightly. “We're going to talk about this like adults.”
Her jaw clenched, lips parting as though she wanted to snap something back. Fucking hell, she was always fighting. Her scent wrapped around me, something warm and maddening, something I wanted to bury myself in. I wasn’t supposed to want her, wasn’t supposed to burn for the way her body fit against mine, but I did. Fuck, I did.
My gaze dipped, only barely, but it was a mistake. A split second of weakness.
I stared at her lips. So soft, so full, so damn tempting.
She sucked in a sharp breath, and the sound shattered whatever fragile control I had left. I yanked her that last inch forward, and her body collided with mine, heat against heat, fury against something much, much worse.
Her breath ghosted over my lips, her lashes fluttered. At her sides, her fingers twitched as if she wanted to push me away but couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“Always running, Cecelia,” I murmured, watching the way her throat worked, the way her eyes flickered with a storm I wanted to get lost in.
“Fuck you.” A breathless whisper.
Unable to help myself I shifted, pressing just enough to make sure she knew I wasn’t unaffected either. “That what you want?”
Her breath stuttered. So did mine.
For one devastating moment, she didn’t move.
Then, with a sharp, broken exhale, she ripped herself away, severing whatever had just happened.
Fury radiated off her in waves as she marched towards the kitchen. I followed, my blood boiling with a volatile mix of anger and desire.
In the kitchen, Edward and Lucia stood by the counter, their conversation dying abruptly as we entered. Edward's gaze flickered between us.
“Mr. Rafe,” Lucia began, her motherly face creased with concern. “I was just preparing dinner. A nice risotto with—”
“Out.” I cut her off with a sharp gesture toward the door. “Both of you.”
Edward straightened, his professional mask slipping for a moment to reveal disapproval. “Sir, perhaps—”
“Now,” I said, my tone leaving no room for argument.
Lucia crossed herself before scurrying from the room, but Edward lingered, his gaze moving to Cecelia. “Mrs. de Luca, will you be requiring anything before I leave?”
The question—directed at her instead of me—was a small act of rebellion that didn't go unnoticed.
“I'm fine, Edward. Thank you.” Cecelia's voice was steadier than I expected. She waited until they'd disappeared down thehallway before spinning to face me, eyes blazing. “What, you don't want them to hear how you're accusing your wife of cheating? Afraid they might realize what a fucking hypocrite you are?”
My jaw worked as I ground my molars.
“I'm not accusing you of anything,” I grit out. “I'm asking for an explanation.”
“No, you're not.” She yanked open the refrigerator door and grabbed a water bottle. “You're making assumptions and throwing around accusations.”
I watched as she unscrewed the cap with jerky movements, her hands still trembling slightly from exertion or anger or both. She took a long drink and a droplet of water escaped to trail down her chin.
