She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her fighting with herself, fighting against letting someone take care of her, fighting against accepting something that feels too much like intimacy.
Then she steps closer—so close I can feel her breath against my throat, so close I can see the individual flecks of gold in her dark eyes—and looks up at me through her lashes.
"What if I want to try on lingerie?" she asks, voice pitched low and teasing, her fingers coming up to toy with the top button of my shirt.
My brain short-circuits for the second time in ten minutes.
"Then I will sit right here," I manage, catching her hand and pressing it flat against my chest where she can feel my heart hammering, "and watch you model every single piece. And then I will buy all of it. And then I will have very detailed fantasies about taking it off you later."
"Just fantasies?" Her fingers curl into my shirt.
I cup her face with my free hand, tilting her head back so I can see her eyes clearly, searching for any hesitation, any doubt. "Are you asking me for more than fantasies, Fiorella?"
Her breath catches, lips parting. "Maybe."
"Maybe isn't an answer." I lean in closer, my mouth hovering just above hers. "Then yes," she whispers, and there is no hesitation in her voice now, no doubt. "I'm asking."
The air between us goes electric, charged with tension that has been building since the moment I found her in my hoodie this morning. Since before that, if I am honest. Since the first time I saw her and knew—just knew—that she was going to ruin me in the best possible way.
"Rosalina," I murmur, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended, scraped raw with want. "If you're asking what I think you're asking, I need you to be very clear. Crystal clear. Because once I start, I'm not stopping."
"I'm asking," she says, more firmly now, her free hand coming up to cup my jaw. "I'm asking you to touch me. To kiss me. To?—"
I don't let her finish. I crush my mouth to hers in a kiss that is all heat and hunger and barely controlled need. She makes a sound—surprised and wanting—and then her arms are aroundmy neck and she is kissing me back with the same desperation I feel, like she has been waiting for this just as long as I have.
She tastes sweet like honey, and when I slide my tongue against hers she whimpers into my mouth in a way that makes me want to back her against the mirror and show her exactly what I have been thinking about since the moment she walked into our lives.
My hands find her waist, fingers digging into the soft leather, sliding down to grip her hips and pull her flush against me so she can feel exactly what she does to me. She gasps when she feels how hard I am, hips rolling forward instinctively, and I swallow the sound with another kiss, deeper this time, claiming.
"Luca," she breathes against my mouth when we break apart for air, her chest heaving, her fingers twisted in my shirt.
"I know, Lina. I know." I trail my lips down her jaw, find the sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her shiver and gasp, her nails digging into my shoulders through the fabric. "I've got you."
My mouth moves lower, teeth grazing the tendon in her neck, and she makes another one of those desperate sounds that makes my blood run hotter. Her hips roll against me again, seeking friction, seeking more, and I groan against her skin because she is going to kill me, absolutely destroy me, and I am going to let her.
I walk her backward until her spine hits the mirror with a soft thump, caging her in with my body, one hand braced beside her head while the other slides down her side, over the curve of her waist, her hip, coming to rest on her thigh.
"Luca," she gasps again, and my name has never sounded better than it does coming from her mouth like that—breathless and needy and wrecked.
I capture her mouth again, kissing her deeper, harder, swallowing every sound she makes. Her leg hooks around my hip, pulling me closer, and the friction makes us both groan into the kiss. My hand slides higher on her thigh, fingertips slipping just barely under the hem of those leather shorts, feeling the heat of her skin?—
A sharp knock on the door makes us both freeze.
"Excuse me," comes a tightly controlled female voice from the other side—the sales associate, and she sounds extremely displeased. "This is not appropriate behavior in our fitting rooms."
Another knock, more insistent this time.
"We have policies about?—"
I pull back from Rosalina just enough to turn my head toward the door, keeping her caged against the mirror with my body. "We're busy," I call out, my voice rough and darker than I intended.
"Sir, I must insist?—"
"Give us five minutes," I say, and there is no request in my tone, just command.
Silence from the other side of the door. Then footsteps retreating, though I can practically feel the disapproval radiating through the wood.
I turn back to Rosalina, and she is staring at me with wide eyes, her lips swollen and red from my mouth, her chest rising and falling rapidly. A laugh bubbles up from her throat—slightly hysterical, slightly delighted.
