“We shouldn’t,” he said, pulling back.
“Why?”
“Because you’re here for me to keep safe, not for me to fuck.”
His words were hard. So hard I almost felt myself tear up.
“Right.”
“I’m sorry, Angela. I won’t fail you. I won’t let myself.”
I nodded. But all I could think was,let yourself—please, let yourself.
Chapter 7
Pietro
Itwasfourinthe morning and I was still awake.
I’d run out of things to do an hour ago. Kitchen cleaned, every knife in the block checked and sharpened, coffee set up for morning and staged for a pour-over even though I liked the moka pot better. I’d showered and changed, stripped the couch, remade it, checked the locks, rechecked the windows, sat down and stood up again twice for no reason but to move.
She was asleep. I could hear her. Every breath called to me. Every breath a temptation.
I lay on the couch, hands locked behind my head, eyes closed, and tried not to replay it. The piano bench. The way she’d sat so close, the warmth of her thigh against mine, her knee angled in so I could smell the soap on her skin and see every small shiver in the muscle there. The way her hand had fit under mine so perfectly, like it was meant for me, likeshewas meant for me. The way her mouth had tasted, even through the wine and the hours and the edges of the old pain. The way she’d put her handson the sides of my face, deliberate, like she was claiming it, and the sound she’d made when I kissed her.
I’d meant to be good. I’d meant to set the lines, hold the boundaries. But then she’d kissed me. She’d made a noise when I kissed her back. She’d pulled me onto her, her weight barely enough to tip the bench, but enough to make me want to fuck her right there, hard enough to break something.
It would have been easy, to blame her for it. To say that she’d wanted it. To say that she’d started it. That was what men did, men like me, men in my family. We blamed everyone else for everything. Not me, though. I blamed myself foreverything.
She’d wanted it, sure. She’d wanted it as a move, a counter, a play. Or maybe she’d just wanted to see what I’d do. Maybe she’d wanted to know if I’d let her.
But the truth was, I’d wanted it more.
I wanted her.
The honesty of it shocked me. No dancing around it, no justification, just pure, unbridled need. I wanted her, not just as a problem to solve or a package to deliver or a duty. Not as a favor to Dante or Marco or even Serafina, who would have said, “just take care of her, Pi,” and meant it with her whole heart. I wanted her the way a man wanted something he could not have. I wanted her in every possible iteration of the word.
I wanted her laughing in my lap at a stupid movie. I wanted her on her knees with her mouth open for me. I wanted her asleep in my bed, hair in my face, the weight of her thigh across my waist. I wanted to make her eat, and sleep, and not worry for a day. I wanted to see how she’d look with a rope around her wrists. I wanted to see how she’d look if she trusted me enough to let me hold her down.
It wasn’t the wanting that was the problem.
The problem was the love.
I’d had feelings for women before. Lust, fondness, even a shot at what passed for long-term attachment in my world. And of course, the woman in Catania. That hadn’t been love, but it had been something. A desire to protect, a need to save? But always, even then—especially then—it had been easy to walk away. This, though, wasn’t easy. It wasn’t even close to being easy. It hurt to think about her leaving, and it hurt worse to think about her staying. I could feel it—raw, like a wound, in the place behind my breastbone that had never fully healed from Catania.
Fuck.
I was in love with her.
Fuck.
There. I’d said it, in my head, even if I’d never say it out loud.
And that made everything a thousand times more complicated.
Because the second you admitted you loved someone, every fucking thing you did to them mattered twice as much. Every choice was a hinge, a way you could ruin it forever or make it better or make it something she could stand to live with. Every time you touched her, you were making a record of your own failures and strengths, and you’d have to answer for it. There was no way out.
I thought about her again. Not the mouth or the thighs or the way she shuddered when I palmed her ass on the bench, but the way she’d looked at me when I told her I couldn’t. The hurt in it. The disappointment, but also the relief.
