“How very unfortunate for me.”
“Very unfortunate,” he echoes, a smile splitting across his face.
This man really is going to ruin me, and I think I might thank him when he does.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Mina
Conversation flows easily from then on, just like when we texted. Neither one of us goes near any topic that might make me think about facing my mother—although the dread stays there the entire time.
We go from talking about movies, to stories about our jobs, to random things that happened during our childhoods.
By the time we’re walking up the steps to my apartment, hand in hand, I’m so full of happiness—and delicious food—that I think I might throw up. The feeling ebbs away when we step into the darkness of my quiet home and continues trickling from me when I lead us to my bedroom.
Trepidation and nerves take its place. The toy that keeps rubbing me is a constant reminder that this night hasn’t ended.
My breath catches in my throat when the door snicks shut behind us. Joyce’s car wasn’t outside, so it’s just me and Leo and the golden light from the lamp on my bedside table.
I stand at the foot of my bed, unsure what to do. He stays four feet away, leaning against the doorframe, watching me.
The shadows along his jaw, cast by the hard ridge of his nose, make him look even sharper than usual. The soft lighting highlights his cheek and around one side of his kissable lips. The dark strands of his hair are no longer perfectly styled like they were when he first walked in hours ago.
Leo looks both comfortable and ready to pounce.
His jacket is in the living room somewhere, his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, so I’m not sure whether to look at his face, the way the tendons in his forearms feather, or the hint of chest peeking out from his unbuttoned shirt.
The moment stretches and builds, stealing the oxygen out of the room. It gets worse when he pushes off the door and takes a purposeful step forward. Then another. Until he’s right in front of me.
I fist my hands so he doesn’t see them shake. I’m grateful when he caresses my hip and takes the lead, turning me around to have my back to him.
Goosebumps dance along my skin as he skates his fingers over my exposed shoulders, down the curve of my spine, following the lace trim of the dress to the zipper.
“Have I told you how hard it’s been to keep my hands to myself while you’re in this dress?” His voice is gravel, only slightly above a whisper.
My core spasms, both pleasantly and unpleasantly. I shake my head even though it’s a rhetorical question.
He moves to the side, angling me toward the bookshelf. My eyes widen, searching the rows for the camera he’s been claiming is there. I finally see it: a button-sized dot in the eye socket of a resin skull.
It showed up months ago amongst the packages of clothing when I first reached out to Sabrina. I don’t recall finding a homefor it, but I do recall a flicker of confusion when I found it in my room. I passed it off as poor memory.
Now, I realize it has a clear, unobstructed view of my bed.
I try to find it in me to be mad or feel violated over learning he’s been watching me since before we started talking. All that’s there is regret over not doing the same thing to him, so I could’ve fed my obsession the way he has.
I’m torn between cowering and standing straighter as Leo unzips the dress and inches it down my frame, slowly exposing my breasts to give the camera a show. The way he gently pulls the fabric off reminds me of a historian handling a priceless artifact—sure, but careful, like he doesn’t want to leave a mark.
Maybe he already has me trained to only do as he says because when he shifts back, and the distinct sound of buttons coming undone fills the space between my heavy breaths, I don’t dare turn around until he lets me.
My eyes flit to his bare chest, following the prominent line down the center of his torso. Shadows dance beneath each noticeable ridge in his abdomen and under his obliques. I’m not in too much denial to admit that my mouth waters slightly when I reach the V leading into his dress pants.
Leo remains unmoving to allow me to carry out my perusal. His tattoos are more intricate in person. The seraphim takes up the entire span of his chest while a foliage pattern curves beneath it, trailing up from his pant line on either side, and cutting off right under his pecs. His muscles spasm beneath my fingertips as I trace the intricate lines.
Each of his sleeves has a different design. On one there’s a dragon coiling up his arm in thick, blocky ink. The other is Japanese inspired, with various creatures from their mythology.
I’ve seen him shirtless hundreds of times before. It’s always been behind a screen, recorded by a person I don’t know. Tohave him here in front of me, in the flesh, it almost doesn’t seem real.
And I want this to be real. I need it as badly as I need oxygen.
