Mario’s house.
Dinner.
The closet.
Green lace.
His mouth.
His hands.
His bed.
Oh God.
I am in Mario Conti’s bed.
I spent the night with Mario Conti.
Again.
Except this time, when I turn my head, he is still there.
For one stunned, sleepy second, I simply stare at him.
He is awake, propped on one elbow, watching me with his hair slightly mussed and his chest bare above the sheet. In the morning light, he looks less untouchable than he does in a suit. Not softer exactly. Mario Conti will never be soft. But more real. Skin and muscle and dark eyes. Silver at his temples. A faint shadow along his jaw.
And he is looking at me like he has been looking at me for a while.
My heart gives one hard, disoriented thump.
“Good morning,” he says.
His voice is rough and sends my heart galloping.
“Hi,” I say, because apparently all my education has led me here.
His mouth curves.
I become abruptly, painfully aware that I am naked beneath his sheets. My hair is probably a disaster. There is a very strong chance my mascara is... not where it started.
Also, I am in his bed, in his house, after the kind of night that some would definitely categorize as scandalous.
I pull the sheet higher over my chest.
Mario’s eyes drop to the movement, and a small smirk forms.
Then his eyes lift again.
"I have a very good memory, cara," he says in that deep, sexy voice. "There is no part I haven't seen yet."
I flush, deep and red.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re very smug in the morning.”
“I have reason to be.”
The heat crawls up my neck.
