Cristiano groans, low and deep, his face pressing into the pillow.
“I’ve always loved your touch,” he mumbles. “Even when it hurts.”
I keep tracing the lines, watching goose bumps rise on his skin. He’s completely relaxed now. Boneless. Content.
With a shaky breath, I withdraw my hand. I’ve indulged myself enough. It’s time to go.
I slip out of the bed, holding my breath, expecting him to reach for me and pull me back.
But he doesn’t.
He turns his head and watches me through heavy-lidded eyes as I gather my clothes. Rosa’s red dress is crumpled on the floor by the window. I find my heels kicked under a leather sofa.
I dress quickly, acutely aware of his gaze on me the entire time. When I’m finished, I turn to face him.
He’s still lying on his stomach, arms folded beneath his head, looking like a Renaissance painting of a debauched angel. Golden curls. Amber eyes. That satisfied smile.
“You’re letting me go?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
His smile widens, amused. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I don’t like to assume when it’s you.”
He stretches lazily, muscles rippling beneath his skin. “I know where you live, Mina. I know where you work. I’m your boss. I own vast swathes of this city and the people in it.” His eyes meet mine, warm and terrifying. “You’re never far from me. I can get to you whenever I want.”
A shiver runs down my spine as I turn toward the elevator.
“Wait,” he says, starting to rise. “Let me walk you down. I’ll get you a car.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp. “I’m fine. I can get myself home.”
I’m already moving, my heart pounding. If I let him walk me down, he might change his mind and decide he’s not ready to let me go after all. He might carry me right back to that bed and keep me there until morning.
Part of me wants that.
That’s exactly why I need to leave.
“Mina—”
The elevator doors open, and I step inside.
“Good night, Cristiano.”
The last thing I see before the doors close is his face. Amused, satisfied, and utterly confident that this isn’t goodbye.
The hotel lobby is busy even though it’s nearly eleven at night. Groups and couples talk and laugh, arriving and departing. Several staff members move through the space. I keep my head down, acutely aware of how I must look. Smudged makeup. Tangled hair. A dress that covers none of the marks Cristiano left on my skin.
I’m halfway to the exit when a man in a dark suit approaches me.
“Miss Santoro?”
I freeze. “Yes?”
“Mr. Montoni’s car is waiting for you.” He gestures toward the fountain outside, where a sleek black vehicle purrs at the curb. “It will take you wherever you need to go.”
I stare at the car. It’s enormous, European, and undoubtedly expensive.
It could be a trap. It could take me nowhere but right back to Cristiano.
