A sharp intake of breath comes from directly behind me.
The sound that comes out of me is not dignified. I spin on the stool so fast my elbow catches the mug and the tea goes sideways and hits my forearm in a wave of heat and I yelp, genuine and loud, and nearly go off the stool entirely.
Rafael.
He's in the doorway. Dark trousers, a shirt hanging open, barefoot. His eyes are on me and they are not going anywhere. They move down the ivory silk, the lace hem, back up, slow and thorough, with the focused attention of a man who has decided he is allowed to look and is going to take his time doing it.
I grab for the robe.
"Your arm," he says.
"I'm fine?—"
He's already across the kitchen. He takes my wrist before I get the robe, his grip careful but absolute, and turns my forearm to the light. The skin is red in a stripe from the spilled tea, not blistered, but angry-looking and hot to the touch.
"Cold water," he says, and steers me to the sink.
“I-it’s really fine, I don’t?—”
“Stay still, Gia.”
I freeze.
The tap runs cold and he holds my arm under it, his fingers around my wrist, and I stand there in my ivory nightdress that hides approximately nothing and try to think about literally anything else. His hand is large. His thumb sits over my pulse point without appearing to notice it's doing that.
"It's not bad," he finally says.
"I told you I was fine." I grumble under my breath.
"You also told me you slept well." He looks at me. "You're a consistent liar."
He dries my arm with a clean cloth, careful around the reddened skin, and I watch his hands because it's easier than watching his face. He has good hands. I've noticed this before and I wish I hadn't because it is not a useful observation, noting the specific way a man's hands move when he's being careful with something.
The nightdress strap slipped off my shoulder at some point. I reach up to fix it. He watches me do it and something in his jaw tightens.
I become very aware that my nipples are visible through the silk. The kitchen is warm but my body is reacting to something that has nothing to do with the temperature, the peaks of them pressing forward, impossible to miss in fabric this thin. I watch his eyes drop there for a single, deliberate second before he slowly drags them back up.
Goodness…
The ache starts low in my belly. Deep and specific. The slickness that follows is immediate, a secret flood between my thighs that I have no control over. I press my legs together on the stool, a futile attempt to hide what my body is screaming.
A sound in the doorway.
One of the night staff, young, wide-eyed, clearly not expecting either of us to be here, takes one step into the kitchen and stops.
What happens to Rafael is instantaneous.
He turns. The careful, controlled man from thirty seconds ago is gone. What replaces him is something with edges, something that takes up the entire room.
"Get out!” He snarls and the young man disappears like he’s being chased by a ghost.
The kitchen turns very quiet.
I look at Rafael. His shoulders are set, his jaw hard, his eyes still on the doorway the man just vacated. There is something almost territorial in the line of his body that I have not seen before.
"Why are you so tense?" My voice comes out smaller than I intend it to.
He turns to look at me. The rawness doesn't go anywhere.
