Yes, based on what my father had told me, that much was true. Just a few days ago, I'd overheard him venting about all the people the Ferraros had in their pocket.
I stared at him, confused by those kisses, confused by the effort he’d made to arrange for us to meet. “Romolo, all this to talk? What’s there to talk about?”
“Plenty.” His gaze narrowed. “Why don’t we start with what the fuck happened to you up on that stage last week?”
I frowned. “You heard about it?” The team had made an effort to bury any articles that mentioned my stumbling, and it hadn't become a big story.
“I saw it, Mia. On TV. You almost fell.”
He’d watched the rallies? I tucked that piece of information away for a later review. “I got a bit lightheaded. That’s it.”
“That’s it?” His hold on me tightened. “It’s a bad look. You don’t want rumors about Morales exploiting his daughter at the expense of her health making the news.”
He was making it into a far bigger deal than it was. And why? Was he worried about me? “What do you care? I’d assume any negative press about my dad would be celebrated by your family.”
His jaw ticked. “How do you feel now?”
Frustration bubbled up inside of me at the way he'd avoided my question. “Romolo, enough. Don’t tell me you went to all this trouble to ask me about my health.”
His gaze darkened. The masks we wore were the only reason we could have this conversation, but right now, I wanted to rip his off so that I could see his face. He’d always been hard to read. Now, it was practically impossible.
“What do you really want?” I asked.
A beat passed.
“You.”
My heart leaped and then plummeted a second later.
More games. I was so tired of playing them with him.
I stopped mid-dance and pushed against his chest. “Let go of me.”
His hold on me only tightened. “Listen to me,” he murmured, bringing his lips close to my ear. “Please.”
“Just when I'd managed to forget about you, you waltz right back into my life,” I spat out. It was a lie. I wondered if he could tell.
He waited for me to still before he resumed spinning me around the room. “Lucky you,” he said. “You don't want to know the things I’ve done to try to forget you for even a minute these past few weeks. None of them worked. You haven’t left my mind for longer than a breath.”
My pulse trembled.
“I can’t fucking sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see you so vividly that I can practically taste you.” Romolo leaned in, brushing his lips against my temple. “I don’t know what the fuck you’ve done to me, Berry, but I need to get you out of my system. And I think you need to get me out of yours too.”
I should've kneed him in the groin—the way I did the first day we met—and fled the scene.
But I couldn’t. Because despite being so damn frustrated with him, with the situation, I could relate to the feeling.
“Berry?” I asked, buying myself more time to think.
He lifted his hand and dragged his thumb over my bottom lip, pulling it down as he did it. “That's what these look like. That’s what you taste like.” Behind his mask, his gaze flared. “Everywhere.”
The memory of him tasting me off his fingers made my breath catch. “What exactly are you proposing?”
“Simple. You. Me. A sturdy bed with a headboard, and a box of condoms. Remember how you said I hadn’t earned you moaning my name? Let me fucking earn it.”
Oh.Oh.
I teetered somewhere between insulted and turned on. He wasn’t here to woo me. He was being upfront about what he wanted.
