His lips travel down my neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His breath is warm against my skin. I can feel the soft rasp of his stubble, the gentle scrape of it over my pulse point.
“Caterina.”
My name is a low murmur against my skin, a warning, a plea.
I don’t want to hear it.
I shift again, climbing carefully onto the bed with his hands guiding me, attempting to straddle him.
It’s a clumsy, graceless movement, but I don’t care. I need to be closer. I need to feel the solid weight of him beneath me. Feel his hard cock slide between my legs—
His sharp hiss of pain cuts through the fog of desire like a shard of ice.
I freeze.
I pull back immediately, my eyes flying to his face. The moonlight from the window catches the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the tight line of his jaw.
“Adrian?”
My voice is a ragged whisper. I’m a breath away from panicking.
Did I hurt him? Oh God, did I hurt him?
His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow and ragged. He doesn't speak, but he raises a hand, a small, deliberate gesture meant to be reassuring but failing completely.
“Did I—” I start, my throat tight with guilt. I scramble to get off him, my movements awkward and frantic. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“No.”
His voice is a strained whisper, but it’s enough to stop me. His eyes flutter open, and they find mine in the dim light. There’s no anger in them. No recrimination. Just a deep, weary frustration.
“No,” he says again, a little stronger this time. “It’s not you.”
But it is, isn’t it?
I was so caught up in my own desperate need to feel alive, to escape the fear, that I forgot. I forgot he was hurt. I forgot he was bleeding hours ago because of me.
And now I’ve made it worse.
"Oh my God, oh my God. What is wrong with me?"
I cover my face with my hands, a hot flush of shame washing over me so intense it feels like a physical burn. I’ve crossed every line, every boundary, every shred of common decency I have left.
I'm not some hormonal teenager who can't control her impulses. I'm not some hysterical woman seeking comfort in the arms of the nearest available man. I'm Caterina Conti.
And I just tried to have sex with a man who got shot saving my life. Hours ago.
The man has open wounds. Currently. Because of me.
A bitter, self-loathing laugh escapes my lips.
What is wrong with me?
“Caterina.” His voice is closer now, gentler. I feel the lightest touch on my wrist. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I can’t look at him. I can’t stand to see the accusation, the pity, the… whatever he’s feeling right now. I’m a mess. A stupid, selfish, shameless mess.
"I have to go," I mumble into my hands, backing away from the bed in what I hope is the direction of the door. I need to get out of this room. I need to go crawl into a hole somewhere and die of embarrassment. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."
