Or hell.
Definitely one of the two, because this is the sweetest torture I have ever experienced.
The fitting room is all cream walls and gold accents, with mirrors on three sides and soft lighting that makes everything look like a dream. There is champagne chilling in a bucket that neither of us has touched, and a small mountain of clothing piled on the settee next to me—things the sales associate has been bringing in at regular intervals based on sizes I guessed at and preferences I made up.
Rosalina disappeared behind the curtain fifteen minutes ago, and I have been sitting here trying very hard not to imagine whatshe looks like between outfit changes—all bare skin and black lace and curves that have been living rent-free in my head since the moment I met her.
The curtain rustles.
She steps out in a black dress—short and tight and showing off legs that go on for miles—and does a little spin that makes the hem flare up and give me a glimpse of black lace underneath.
My brain short-circuits.
"What do you think?" she asks, placing her hands on her hips, watching me with those dark eyes that see way too much, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"I think that dress is dangerous," I manage, shifting in my seat because watching her parade around in increasingly revealing outfits is doing things to my self-control that should probably be illegal.
She turns to examine herself in the three-way mirror, running her hands down her sides. "Dangerous how?"
"Dangerous in that if you wear it in public, I'm going to have to kill at least three men for looking at you the wrong way."
She laughs—actually laughs, bright and genuine and completely unguarded—and the sound does something to my chest that I am not ready to examine. "Possessive much?"
"You have no idea, Fiorella."
She catches my eye in the mirror, something heated passing between us, before she disappears back into the changing room. I hear the rustle of fabric, the slide of a zipper, her soft humming,and I have to adjust myself again because even the sounds of her changing are doing things to me.
The curtain parts again, and she emerges in a red silk blouse and leather shorts that fit her like they were painted on, like they were created specifically to destroy what little remains of my sanity.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe, sitting up straighter.
"Too much?" She does another spin, slower this time, giving me the full effect.
"Not enough." I stand up, moving closer, circling her slowly while she watches me in the mirror with eyes that have gone dark and knowing. "Turn around."
She does, slowly, and I get the full effect—the way the silk clings to her breasts, the way the leather hugs her ass like a second skin, the way her hair falls over one shoulder in dark waves that I want to wrap around my fist.
"We're taking this one," I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
She turns to face me, eyebrows raised. "You haven't even asked how much it costs."
"Don't care." I meet her eyes, letting her see exactly how affected I am. "We're taking all of it."
"Luca—"
"All. Of. It." I emphasize each word, taking another step closer. "Every single thing you've tried on. Every single thing you're going to try on. I don't care if it costs ten dollars or ten thousand. If it looks that good on you, it's coming home with us."
She turns to face me fully, and there is something soft in her expression now, something almost vulnerable that makes my chest tighten. "You can't just?—"
"I can. I am." I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her jaw. "Let me do this, Lina. Let me take care of you."
"Why?" The word comes out barely above a whisper.
"Because I want to. Because you deserve it. Because watching you light up when you find something you love is worth more than whatever number ends up on my credit card statement." I trace my thumb along her cheekbone. "Because I've been stuck in meetings with Frank Lucas for four days straight listening to him pontificate about his empire while all I could think about was getting back here to you."
Her breath hitches. "You were thinking about me?"
"Constantly, Fiorella. Constantly and inappropriately and in ways that would make you blush."
