‘I wasn’t talking about your mouth.’
And Jesus Christ, my knees nearly give out, liquid heat flooding into my lace.
‘Changing your mind, Stone?’
I shake my head, and his jaw tics.
‘Then get inside.’
He releases me, and I flounder, the spell shattering the second he steps away.
‘Move, Stone. Unless you want me to take you right here, where any late-night wanderer can see. Because I’m game if you are…’
His fingers lift to the buttons of his shirt, working each one open with maddening calm. Like we’re not about to change everythingbetween us. Like it’s not monumental in every way. But I asked for it. I started it.
Not this, though. Not sex.
I asked for a baby. Not to break rank.
He pauses on the last button, the exposed strip of his chest – all that ink and cut muscle, bronzed against white cotton – drawing my gaze down like gravity.
‘I’m clean,’ he says, and my eyes snap back to his, ‘if that’s what you need clarifying.’
Fuck. ‘No. No, it’s not that. I am too. It’s— I?—’
‘Then?’
I nip my lip, hating that I’m on edge. That I can’t just claim this moment like I would any other man or woman I’ve slept with. But he’s not another notch on the bedpost. He’s Axel.FuckingAxel. And I need more time. Space to think without him in it. I need…
‘I don’t even know if I’m fertile right now.’
His mouth quirks, a rare dimple denting his cheek now the beard’s gone.
‘You think I give a shit about fertility? That’s your side of the deal, not mine. You want a baby. I get you any time I want you. And I want you, right here, right now.’
My heart short-circuits. My brain, too.
I don’t recognise him like this – not with me. Hard. Demanding. Brutal, even.
But my body loves it, the throbbing ache low in my belly intensifying with his every play.
‘What is it they say, Tay?’ He drags his teeth over his bottom lip, and damn if I don’t quiver. ‘Practice makes perfect. And I plan on getting plenty. Now get inside. Or leave. No harm, no foul. Your choice.’
I move before he can doubt me again. Move before I doubt myself.
I make it as far as his bed and freeze.
Fuck. We’re really going to do this. Me and Axel. Axel and me.
The cool, conditioned air kisses my sensitised skin as I spin towards the balcony. He steps through the breeze-filled drapes, drinks in hand, eyes flicking from me to the door; was he really expecting me to bolt?
Hell, no.
I curl my trembling fingers into my palms, lift my chin, make him think I know exactly what I’m doing when every nerve screams otherwise.
He sets our drinks on the small, round table in the corner, nudges the wingback chair beside it with a swift kick so it’s facing me – likeI’mthe entertainment instead of the Tuscan coast. Then he strips his shirt with his back to me. Tanned muscles bunch. Wild strokes of ink flex. And my mouth parts, my pulse hammers.
Who’s the real entertainment here?
