“Can you let me go?”
He released me immediately and shook out his arm. I could only assume it was numb from how tightly he’d clamped me to him all night.
“How did you sleep?”
“Fine,”I said, then sighed. The worst part was that I didn’t want to be angry. “You?”
He nodded. “Best night’s sleep I’ve had in two months.”
Since the last time we’d shared a bed, and I’d run away the morning after.
“You’ll have to get some medication,” I told him, dragging the sheet off the bed as I stood, trying to cover the body he’d licked, slapped, caressed, fucked. “Because it will never happen again.”
He was silent, lying there, naked.
Sweet lord.It was not fair.How could he lie there, looking up at the ceiling, palms under his head, showing me everything?Those solid abs I’d traced and the scratches on his chest from how I’d ridden him so hard, I’d had to bite into his shoulder to keep quiet so our parents didn’t overhear us.
And then there was that solid cock, jutting above that defined V, past his navel, because he was massive. It was all in proportion.
Just one look, one heartbeat, seeing him in the sunrise that came through the open balcony doors… and I was ready to climb back on him and claim that morning wood.
“Never?” he asked. “Yet you’re looking at me like that?”
He stood, unapologetic for his huge erection, and walked over to my stunned, frozen body.
“We have nothing to feel guilty about,” he said, running a hand down my arm. “Stop beating yourself up.”
“We can’t—”
“We can,” he said. “There is nothing we can’t do.As I said, I’d go and tell our parents right now.”
I stepped directly before the door. “No. You can’t. There’s nothing to tell them.”
“I’d tell them we are together,” he said.“If that would make you feel better. I would take all responsibility. We are not just sex, Zsófia.”
I’d clearly struck a chord last night.
“I’d tell them at breakfast, before they leave for their honeymoon.”
“Oh yes,” I laughed with disbelief. “Nothing says ‘honeymoon’ like incest!”
His laughter was real, and he wrapped his arm around my neck, pulling me into his chest. “You’re funny when you’re frustrated.”
“I do not mean to be funny,” I snapped.
He pressed something onto my head — I feared it was his lips — and laughed against my hair.
“Give me two days.” He squeezed me. “Please. Just two.”
My heart thundered, pulsing in my ears.
Zoltán Farkas was begging me to give him a chance.
He pulled back and took my hands in his. “Please.”
I wanted to be strong. I wanted to say no. For the sake of our families, jobs, and sanity.
But looking into his dark, pleading eyes, I felt myself crumbling. And then heard my voice saying, “I’m making no promises, Zolt.”
