She fits perfectly against me, her body warm and soft in all the right places.
We move together, swaying to Elijah’s music, and the sexual tension that’s been simmering all day ignites.
Her hands slide up my chest, feeling my heart hammer beneath her palms.
I watch her teeth worry her bottom lip, see the pulse racing in her throat.
My fingers trace the curve of her spine through the thin fabric of her dress, and she arches into my touch.
“Marcus.” My name on her lips makes the letter in my pocket feel like a noose tightening around my neck.
I pull her harder against me, letting her feel exactly what she does to me. Her breath catches, and I watch her pupils dilate.
The music builds, Elijah’s fingers flying across the keys with increasing intensity, and our movements become less like dancing and more like foreplay.
My mouth finds her throat, teeth grazing her pulse point.
She gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt.
I can feel Elijah watching us, can sense Adrian’s presence in the doorway though I don’t look to confirm.
The knowledge that they’re witnessing this, that they want this too, makes everything more intense.
“Te necesito,” I murmur against her skin. I need you. “Ahora.” Now.
Charlie’s hands find my belt, her fingers trembling as she works the buckle. I help her, my movements urgent, desperate. The letter in my pocket crinkles with the motion, reminding me that this might be one of our last times together.
I lift her onto the piano bench, settling between her thighs.
Elijah’s hands still on the keys, but he doesn’t move away.
Just watches with those crystalline blue eyes dark with hunger.
I can hear Adrian’s ragged breathing from the doorway, can feel the weight of his gaze as I push Charlie’s dress up her thighs.
What follows is desperate and claiming. I take her on the piano bench while Elijah watches from inches away, while Adrian stands frozen in the doorway fighting himself.
My hands grip her hips hard enough to bruise, and she welcomes the marks.
Proof that this is real, that we exist, that what we have matters.
“Eres mía,” I growl against her throat. You’re mine. “Siempre.” Always.
But even as I say it, even as her body tightens around me and she cries out my name, the letter burns like a brand. A reminder that always might have an expiration date. That Father Castellano’s offer could tear me away from this, from her, from everything that matters.
When we’re both spent and trembling, when Charlie’s collapsed against my chest and my heart is still racing, I catch Adrian’s eyes across the loft.
He knows something’s wrong.
He can probably see it written across my face despite the afterglow.
The letter feels like it’s burning a hole through my pocket, through my chest, straight to my heart. I have six months to decide.
Six months to choose between the vocation I abandoned and the woman who’s become my entire world.
I don’t know what I’m going to do.
40
