I now know what Mario’s hands feel like on my body.
I now know what he looks like hovering above me, his body strong and powerful and so very capable.
I now know the feeling of being filled by him, stretched, possessed.
I now know the sound of his voice saying my name in that commanding tone and how he speaks Italian when he's losing control and how his eyes change when he watches me come apart.
I now know the feeling of waking up with him beside me and the taste of coffee in the morning.
The elevator opens, and my pulse leaps again.
I do not know what to do with myself.
I know what I want to do.
I want to step into his office, push him back against his desk, and have my way with him until neither of us can breathe.
I am a very different woman from the one who got on this elevator Friday afternoon, stumbling, exhausted, frustrated.
I step off the elevator and immediately see Lorenzo Conti walking toward me from the opposite corridor.
For one horrifying second, I start to panic.
Which is ridiculous.
Lorenzo does not know.
Of course he does not know.
Why would he know?
There is no visible sign over my head that reads ‘slept with your older brother and had a religious experience’.
Hopefully.
“Victoria,” Lorenzo says, smiling as he approaches.
I am briefly grateful he does not call me Ms. Murray.
Then I am briefly alarmed by how normal my name sounds coming from a Conti who is not Mario.
“Lorenzo,” I say. “Good morning.”
He slows when he reaches me, his gaze moving over my face with that polished, observant calm that makes me want to smooth down my clothes and stand a little straighter.
“You look better,” he says.
My entire soul attempts to exit my body.
“Better?” I repeat.
“Yes.” His smile turns faintly amused. “Less like you’re about to collapse any moment.”
Oh.
Right.
Normal better.
