When she sat down and began sketching quietly, his eyes closed. For all his brutally honest ways, he’d rejected her in a roundabout way. Stopped her before she made a fool of herself.
Maybe she’d been fooling herself that the pull between them was strong on his side too. Maybe he wasn’t into women who threw themselves at him.
Maybe he saw her as an interesting anomaly in Matteo’s life and nothing else.
No, he wanted her.
She knew that as well as the unshed tears crowding her eyes as she captured the beautiful lines of his face.
Alessandro stayed still and quiet for how long he had no idea. At least the violent tremors that had taken hold of him earlier had subsided. But he couldn’t relax.
Rejecting her, killing the tug of open desire in her eyes, had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Pushing away from her touch—that he still felt on his jaw like some sort of phantom caress—was like kicking himself when he was already down.
Because after two days of trying to make sense of his world crashing down on him, of coming to terms with his grief and guilt and powerlessness as Matteo lay pale and unconscious in the hospital bed, all he wanted was to lose himself in the compassion in her eyes, in the strength she offered with her words, in the inviting warmth of her body.
She made him forget effortlessly—her fists as they landed on his chest, her body clinging to his offering solace and escape, her words, probing and seeking and giving—everything about her felt like salvation. A relief from the agony of wondering if he’d lose his brother before he could fix their relationship.
But he’d forced himself to remember who she was. He’d rejected her, knowing that he was hurting her. It hurt him a thousandfold to see her retreat. To see the sheen of tears in her eyes. To see her struggle to pull up her armor.
Now the only sounds in the room were the scratch of her pencil against paper and the thundering roar of his own heart in his ears.
Her gaze touched every inch of his face, lingered on his mouth. Even aware that all she saw was a subject, his body still reacted. He was exhausted to the bone, his control in shreds. All he wanted to do was to hold her again, bury his face in her warm neck, pick her up in his arms and take her to bed.
And stay there, for as long as it took to convince her that he wanted her. That he was shaking with need to kiss that soft mouth. That he wanted to make her smile again, wanted her to spar with him again. That he wanted that hand of hers to drift all over him, as she’d been thinking earlier.
Even while he’d been waiting for Matteo to wake up, he hadn’t stopped thinking about her. How would she take the news? Would she fall apart? Or would she realize the depth of her feelings for him and want him back?
Selfish as he was, the last scenario had gnawed away at him. The prospect of seeing them back together made him want to throw up. His relief that, while she loved Matteo, she didn’t want to be back with him made him shake like a leaf.
There was an inexplicable fragility about her that was a reminder that he did not know all of her. Violetta, before she’d fallen sick, had been bold, vivacious, a lioness of a woman.
But Sameera’s strength was more subtle, more nuanced.
It lay in her heart.
Her bold claim that no one should shoulder life alone, that she would hold his hand through this was as painfully real and arousing as her lean, lithe body pressed up against him.
For the first time in more than a decade, Alessandro wanted something with a soul-deep need.
But the same intense desire that was tying him up in knots, that had him shaking like a teenage boy at the mercy of his libido, was also a blaring warning sign.
She unraveled him with her honest words and her genuine concern and her tentative touches. Her fingers on his hand felt more arousing than another woman’s mouth on his cock. He swallowed at the filthy images that thought brought on, with her in all of them now. His erection pushed against his trousers. If her gaze dipped below his chest, she’d see it clearly outlined. But it didn’t move past his chin.
In the hour that they sat in silence, she didn’t look at him again as anything other than a subject, her will as steely as her smile could be soft.
In that first moment of consciousness, Matteo had asked for Sam. Not his mother who hadn’t left his side. Not Angelina whose vivacity had gone out. Not their father or Alessandro.
‘Sam… I want to see her. I want to tell her that I…’ The rest had been lost as he’d slipped back to sleep.
The last thing Alessandro could do while his brother was unconscious in a sterile hospital bed was kiss his girl or his ex or whatever the hell Sameera was to him.
He opened his eyes to find Sameera looking at him but not really seeing him. He, on the other hand, watched her with shameless abandon, lust stabbing through him like an incessant bell.
Her wide lips were wrapped around a pencil while her hair lovingly framed her face. The worn-out crop top showed her navel. He wanted to peel that top off and kiss her all over. He wanted to tongue her belly button and tug at that diamond stud with his teeth. He wanted to dip his fingers into those tight leggings she wore and discover if she was wet for him.
He wanted to make her come on his fingers, mark her skin with light bruises. He wanted to make her smile and laugh, cry and scream, writhe and moan beneath him. He wanted to bury himself so deep inside her that he was a part of the aching loveliness of her spirit and body.
Cristo, he wanted her.
