Page 205 of Claimed At First Sight

Kissing surely must work the same way.

Admittedly, Maximo and I have made out three times now, and each time has been better than the last, but that only proves I haven’t reached the point of diminishing returns yet.

A smile spreads across my face.

I can kiss him as much as I want without worrying that it will lead to anything I’m not ready for because Maximo himself has imposed the boundary.

Meanwhile, repeated exposure will gradually rid me of this stupid fascination with his mouth, his hands, and the way he says my name when he’s…

No, we’re not revisiting the shower.

The point is, I can use his old-fashioned insistence on saving everything else for marriage against him. I’ll take the kisses, satisfy my curiosity, and continue until my body and mind finally realize he’s just an ordinary man.

This is brilliant.

By the time I turn off the shower, the humiliation of facing him has receded beneath the confidence of having a new plan. I wrap myself in an enormous white towel and begin squeezing the water from my hair.

A knock sounds at the door. “Mia?”

Every muscle in my body locks at the sound of Maximo’s voice.

“Yes?”

“There’s a bag of fresh clothes outside the door.”

His voice sounds normal. Not amused, suspicious, or remotely like that rough voice saying my name beneath the shower.

“Thank you.”

His footsteps retreat across the floor, and I wait until I can no longer hear them. Then I press my ear to the door for another full minute in case he’s loitering outside, hoping to witness my emergence.

Silence answers.

I hadn’t even thought about what I was going to wear. My outfit from yesterday or the comfort clothes Maximo got me last night would have been my only options.

Having boutiques in the same building is rather convenient. I could almost understand why Maximo owns an entire skyscraper if it means waking after a blizzard and having a new wardrobe delivered directly to the bathroom.

Keeping the towel secured around me with one hand, I ease the door open, grab the black shopping bag, and pull it inside before locking the door again.

What has he chosen for me this time?

I carry the bag to the vanity and pull out a pair of black boots, the soft leather reaching just below my knees. A cream knit dress follows, along with thick black leggings. The dress has long sleeves and a high, folded collar, soft enough to be comfortable after a night on the floor but elegant enough that I won’t look as though I slept in front of a fireplace during a snowstorm.

Fresh underwear and socks have been tucked in as well, all in the correct size. I run my fingers over the soft knit. This outfit is warm, practical, and exactly right for the weather.

Maximo chose well. Or someone in one of the boutiques did. There’s no reason to attach any significance to it.

I take my time getting ready, pulling on the fresh clothes before drying my hair until it falls in soft waves over my shoulders.

By the time I zip the boots and study my reflection, the woman in the mirror no longer looks like someone who fled through a penthouse after catching a Mafia Don pleasuring himself.

She looks composed, confident, and capable of facing him without dissolving from embarrassment.

Maximo probably expects me to avoid him after what happened. He might even believe he’s pushed me one step closer to agreeing to his proposal.

But he’s about to discover that I can use this attraction just as easily as he can.

I unlock the door and step into the hallway. The soft notes of a piano drift toward me from somewhere beyond the living room. I follow the music through the penthouse, past our abandoned nest of blankets, until the hallway opens into a vast kitchen of dark wood, pale stone, and gleaming steel.