I’ve never seen a man like this before—half-naked, powerful, dangerous. A cigar dangles from one hand, smoke curling upward like ghostly fingers. The other hand holds a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid that catches the firelight.
My mouth goes dry. My heart pounds for entirely different reasons than when I woke from my nightmare. I want to run, but my feet seem rooted to the plush carpet.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper. “I was looking for the kitchen. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
His sage green eyes sweep over me, taking in my damp clothes and trembling form. A slow smile spreads across his face, predatory and knowing.
“No intrusion,” he says, bringing the cigar to his lips and inhaling deeply. When he exhales, the smoke creates a momentary veil between us. “You might as well stay and entertain me.”
I shiver, both from my wet clothes and his words. Entertain him? What does that mean? Images flash through my mind—terrible, tempting images that make my cheeks burn and my pulse race.
And God help me, my eyes drop to his crotch before I can stop them. I lick my lips nervously, then immediately regret it when his eyes track the movement, that smile growing wider.
I’ve never wanted to disappear more in my life.
“You’re shaking.” Raffaele’s voice cuts through the silence between us, his eyes narrowing as they track the tremor in my hands. He sits up straighter, setting his glass down on a small table beside the couch. “Why are you wearing wet clothes?”
I wrap my arms tighter around myself, the damp fabric of my shirt clinging uncomfortably to my skin. “They’re not wet,” I lie. “Just… cold.”
“Bullshit.” He takes another drag of his cigar, the ember glowing bright orange in the dim room. “Those clothes are soaked through. Why?”
The question hangs between us, and I press my lips together. What am I supposed to say? That I’m so desperate to maintain some scrap of independence that I’d rather wear wet clothes I wash in a bathroom sink than accept anything he’s provided?
“Fine,” he says when I don’t answer. He reaches for the white t-shirt hanging over the side of the couch and tosses it at me. It lands against my chest. “Put this on before you catch pneumonia.”
“I…” My voice falters as I clutch the fabric. It smells like him—a mix of smoke and expensive cologne and something uniquely male. “Here?”
“Why not?” He sounds almost bored as he turns he looks away from me, facing the fire. “Are you too shy? Too much of a good girl?”
My cheeks flame at the implication. I glance around for somewhere more private, but the only option would be retreating behind a bookshelf or leaving the room entirely. And I know he won’t let me do either.
“Can you at least turn around?” I beg.
He lets out a dark laugh that reverberates around the room. “Sure, Piccola. I’ll even close my eyes so we can preserve your virtue,” he mocks. He lets his eyelids cover his sage green orbs before shifting so his back is to me.
I’m pretty sure my high school Italian teacher once made us watch a movie where piccola was used as an endearment. But I can’t remember if the subtitles read ‘little one’, ‘my girl’, or simply ‘baby’.
Not trusting him, I walk over to the chair and give him my back while I peel my wet shirt over my head. The air hits my damp skin, raising goosebumps across my flesh. My bra follows, the cold having already made my nipples painfully hard.
I try not to think about how exposed I am as I stand there, half-naked in a strange man’s library. I pull his shirt on quickly, the soft fabric settling over my curves like a caress.
It’s huge on me, hanging nearly to mid-thigh, the sleeves reaching my elbows. But it’s warm and dry and smells of him in a way that makes something low in my belly tighten.
“Done,” I say quietly.
Raffaele turns back to me, his green eyes immediately dropping to where my nipples press against the thin white fabric. He doesn’t even try to hide his appraisal, his gaze moving lazily over my body as if cataloging every detail.
“Definitely an improvement,” he says, his voice dropping a shade lower. He lifts his whiskey glass again. “Would you like some?”
Common sense tells me to refuse. I’m already lightheaded from hunger; alcohol on an empty stomach is the last thing I need. But the burn might dull the ache in my belly, and right now, I’ll take any relief I can get.
When I nod, he stands and moves over to the cart in the corner. There he finds a second glass and fills them both before returning.
“Here you go.”
Our fingers brush when I take it from him, and I nearly drop the glass at the jolt that runs through me. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“Your jeans are soaked too,” he observes, his eyes moving to my lower half. “You should take them off.”
