And the most humiliating part is that I’m… disappointed.
I miss his arms.
I forgot how much I missed them until I was in them again, breathing against him, feeling his heat at my back like something that belonged there.
It’s been almost three weeks since that last time in the conference room—his mouth on mine, my tears on his shirt, my hands grabbing him like I couldn’t bear the distance even while I was creating it.
I want him so badly it’s almost physical pain. It’s in my chest, in my throat, in my thighs—an ache that feels like it’s clogging my lungs.
I told myself I wasn’t going to do this. There was a reason I broke it off.
What was that damn reason again?
Oh.
Right.
My professional reputation. My career. The fact that I can’t afford to be the woman who sleeps with the man on the other side of the deal.
Except it all seems so far away right now, sitting on my couch with my skin warm from food and wine and his presence, and my body humming like it doesn’t give a single damn about consequences.
Antonio sets his fork down and stacks his plate with mine without thinking, like it’s muscle memory. He shifts forward, readying himself to stand.
Before he can, I’m up.
Too fast. Too sudden. My knees hit the edge of the coffee table, and I don’t even feel it.
I step into his path—subtle enough to pretend it’s casual, direct enough that it isn’t.
“You don’t have to,” I say quickly.
His brows lift as he pauses, plates balanced in his hands. “Elsa—”
“I’ll take care of it,” I add, and my voice is steady even though the air between us feels like it’s sparking.
He looks down at the plates, then back up at me, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.
“You cooked,” he says simply. “I’ll clean.”
“We both cooked,” I argue, because I need something to argue about that isn’t the fact that I want to climb him like a tree. “And it’s my apartment.”
Hisgaze flicks over my face, lingering on my mouth like he’s remembering it. Like he’s thinking about the rules. Like he’s testing his own restraint.
Then he tilts his head.
“How about this,” he says, voice going low and smooth. “I’ll clean, and you find us something sweet for dessert.”
The words shouldn’t sound like a dare.
They do.
My breath catches, betraying me. I feel it in my chest, in the tiny pause before I answer.
“Okay,” I manage, and it comes out breathless.
Antonio’s eyes hold mine for a beat—too long, too heavy—then he steps around me without brushing my body on purpose.
It’s worse than if he did.
