An hour later, my head is still buried in the pillow when the doorbell chimes. I make a low, frustrated noise, set on ignoring whoever's at the door. Hell, no one would fault me for not opening the door in the middle of the night, but it seems whoever it is wants to wake me. The chime comes again. Sharper this time. Insistent.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I hiss, pushing myself up and dragging my feet out of my bedroom. I don’t bother sliding into pants as I walk toward the door, clad in a worn T-shirt I stole from my brother Conor. I don’t plan on letting anyone in anyway. Probably someone who got drunk and is at the wrong door. It’s happened before, so I’ll just send them on their merry way and get back to brooding alone.
Except when I walk to the sleek rectangular screen embedded in the wood and tap it to see the live feed from the camera outside my door, it’s not my drunk neighbor.
It’s Lorenzo Rossi.
A storm of emotion washes over me, and before my mind can catch up, my hand is already reaching for the handle, the door swinging inward.
There he is. In freaking sweatpants, looking so handsome that my heart does a nervous flutter. Suddenly, I feel out of sorts around this man. In ways I never did with Raziel. Not even with Lorenzo Rossi when we first met, but something changed last night.
Something changed tonight.
“You’re here,” I manage, taking in his dark hoodie and those grey sweatpants that make it seem like he jumped straight out of bed and rushed over here. “Um…why are you here?”
No, wait. I’m asking all the wrong questions.
“How do you know where I live?”
Lorenzo raises a single brow at me, and I realize that, too, was a dumb question. The man could possibly hack the mainframe of the Pentagon if he put his mind to it. Surely, finding my location was a piece of cake for him.
“Are you going to let me in, Var?”
Var? Good Lord, the way he says my name sends my heart racing, and my legs are practically jelly when I move aside to let him in. I find myself self-conscious of my space as I lock the door behind him, but when he turns around to look at me, I forget it all. “W-would you like something to drink? Water, coffee?”
“It’s a little too late for coffee, and I have an early meeting tomorrow morning, so I’ll need the rest.”
“Then why did you come?”
“I had to see it for myself,” he says, and I swallow hard when he takes a step toward me and then another until he's practically backing me up against the wall. He’s so close that I can see the brown and green of his iris and smell his cologne. “Var, you have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this moment.” I gasp when he lifts his hand to my cheek, his thumb caressing my skin and leaving a fiery heat that spreads to my tummy and leaves me achy. Aroused. “I had to see you and finally…do this.”
Lorenzo dips his head, and his lips brush against mine, the kiss so soft and undemanding that it sends wet heat pooling at the aching spot between my legs. My eyes flutter closed, and I liftmy lips up to meet his, terrified that he’ll sense my inexperience and push back. That I’ll somehow do something to ruin this moment. But I can’t help it. I can’t help that this is my first real kiss, with a man I’ve fancied myself in love with for years.
“Raziel,” I whimper, grabbing onto his shoulders as my knees go weak, needing more from the kiss.
“I felt it last night,” he rasps against my lips, his thumb pulling down my chin until my lips slowly part for him. Until we’re breathing into each other, so intimate. So obscene for people who are supposed to be strangers. “There was something about you that felt familiar, and you have no idea how much of a scum I felt. Knowing I was attracted to Fiona when I already had someone else that I was interested in.”
“You were?” I ask, surprised that he felt the same way I had last night. Having any sort of attraction for Lorenzo felt like I was cheating on Raziel. “That connection…”
“It was real,” he rasps, his eyes meeting mine briefly before his mouth dips back to mine. This time, there is nothing soft and gentle about it. It’s demanding, dirty, and possessive in the way his tongue sweeps into my mouth. I shudder when his free hand circles my waist, and I am yanked flush against him. His mouth opens over mine with hunger and a need to possess. To take. I open up for him, fingers tightening on his shoulder and leaning into his touch. Seeking his mouth…wanting more.
A whimper climbs up my throat when his tongue strokes mine, and I feel a rush of wetness between my legs. There is a sense of urgency in the kiss, heavy with need. With longing, and it’s hard, nearly impossible, to tell who needs this more. His hand slides up my bare thigh and under the T-shirt, then between my thighs. I jerk against his arms when he tugs mypanties aside and slides a finger between my wet folds, making me moan into the kiss. “Raziel.”
“Goddamnit,” he exhales. “I should probably leave, but fuck, I want you so much right now.”
My heart pounds against my ribs and blood roars in my brain, all indications that I am not in the best state of mind to make any decisions. Yet I find myself clinging to the man and saying words I really shouldn’t be saying when my brain is foggy with need.
“Don’t go,” I whisper, meeting the dark need in his eyes. “Stay, please.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I find myself swept into his arms, and his mouth is back on mine. The walk to my bedroom is a blur, and the next thing I know, I’m lying on the bed with Lorenzo’s lips moving frantically over mine before trailing along my jaw, cheek, and neck. Kissing me…everywhere.
His hand—those long, skilled fingers, calloused from spending too much time pressing on keys—travels under my T-shirt. I gasp when they cup my breasts, teasing my beaded nipples. I know I should stop him. This man is, in every sense of the word, a stranger. Sure, we've talked online for three years, but the first time we meet after discovering the truth shouldn't be spent rolling around in bed.
That’s insane.
And yet, when he straddles me and sits up to shrug off his hoodie, I can’t find my voice to point out the oddity of this situation. Instead, I’m stuck ogling him. The beautiful ink that colors his arms and pecs, and finally, the sigil for Raziel that’s inked like a stamp on his ribs. I reach out and trace a finger over it, his warm muscles shifting under my fingertips as I caress the spot.
“Fuck,piccola flamma,” he hisses, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips, forcing my eyes to his. Christ, that face. It’s one of a fallen angel, dark and beautiful. Dangerous. And the look in his eyes is that of a hungry man. I flush, biting into my lip as I feel my core grow uncomfortably wet the longer he stares down at me, half-naked. In my bed.
