Katie
Idon’t move. I stand there staring at him while my brain replays the last eighteen hours in painful, humiliating detail.
The car. The porch. The way I practically climbed into his lap, forgetting every life lesson about self-respect.
My face burns as the memory hits me full force.
I was ready. Completely, embarrassingly ready.
One more minute and I would have handed over my V-card like an idiot to a man I’d known for less than a day.
Any normal woman would have stormed off by now.
She would have thrown something or slapped him.
Instead, I’m rooted to the floor while my brain processes the fact that Michael Amato—Mr. Tall, Dark, and Apparently a walking bad decision—forgot to mention one very important detail about his life. He was fucking engaged.
Screw this. I shove into him since he won’t move. His hands clamp around my waist before I can even get past him.
“I never even kissed her,” he says.
I tilt my head up.
“That can’t be true.”
“Until last night, I hadn’t kissed a woman in two years.”
I stare at him, but my brain has already betrayed me and gone straight back to the car.
The way he lifted the console and hauled me into his lap. The heat of him under me. The way his hand felt at my waist while he kissed me—the world narrowing down to the two of us and the dark interior of that stupidly expensive car.
Then the porch. The fact that he carried me all the way up the steps without breaking the kiss, and he wants me to believe that man hasn’t kissed anyone in two years?
Yeah. I’m not buying it.
“You’re lying,” I say, trying to twist out of his hold.
“I’m not, Doll.”
His grip tightens. I stare at him. He looks sincere, but that doesn’t mean jack shit.
If he’s actually telling the truth, then last night wasn’t some impulsive kiss with a stranger.
That means he chose to kiss me, and if he really did just walk away from an engagement—my stomach flips violently at the thought.
That would mean he didn’t just kiss me. He detonated an entire relationship over me.
“Why would you end an engagement over me?” I say, twisting harder. “I’m not that special.”
He releases me and takes a step back.
“Doll—“
“Stop calling me that.”
He moves closer again.
“Katie.” His fingers catch one of my curls, winding it around them.
My brain is screaming at me to move. To shove him away again. To create distance before this moment gets even more complicated.
Instead, I watch him.
“You absolutely are that special.”
His hand slides down from my jaw and settles at the back of my neck.
His other hand finds the small of my back and gently pulls me forward, and my dumb ass lets him.
Apparently, all of my carefully constructed personal boundaries collapse the moment Michael Amato touches me.
My brain recognizes this as a deeply troubling development.
Sadly, the rest of me appears to have voted against doing anything about it.
He leans down and kisses me. That’s it. That’s the end of rational thought.
My hands find his neck immediately as the kiss drags me under. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware that I should probably still be angry with him. Unfortunately, that part of my brain is no longer in charge.
I pull away.
“No! This can’t happen.”
“Sure it can,” he says, coming up behind me. He brushes my hair away from my neck.
Move, Katie.
I don’t.
He bends down and presses a kiss just behind my ear.
Dear God.
Every nerve in my body lights up as if someone flipped a switch. My fingers curl into fists at my sides while my brain scrambles to remember why this is a bad idea. Unfortunately, the man currently standing behind me appears to be very good at distracting me from that list.
With a gentle touch, his hand moves up my side, mapping the curve of my ribs before coming to rest beneath my breast. He traces the edge, and his palm presses against the exposed skin at the top of my dress.
His breath fans across my neck as his lips follow a slow path downward as his hand ventures into the front of my dress.
I shut my eyes, lost in the moment, as his fingers brush against my nipple through the thin barrier of my bra.
It feels so damn good.
“Michael—“
“Yes, Doll?” he replies, his lips still brushing my neck.
His hand eases down the front of my bra, fingers circling and lightly pinching my nipple, drawing a quiet gasp from my lips.
I moan softly, the sound escaping before I can stop it, and suddenly the spark of irritation that had me fuming earlier feels distant, overshadowed by the rush of desire. Why was I mad again?
A sudden throat-clearing from behind us snaps the air taut. Michael pulls his hand away in an instant, spinning to face the intruder while positioning himself squarely in front of me.
“Somebody better be fucking dying,” he growls, his tone laced with warning.
“Boss,” the voice says hesitantly from the doorway. “I apologize for the interruption. I didn’t realize you were occupied.”
“What the fuck do you need?” Michael snaps. His body is still angled protectively in front of me.
I haven’t seen this side of him. Internally, it hits like a jolt.
“Matteo Messina’s on the line. He wants to talk to you directly.”
Peeking around Michael’s broad shoulder, I catch his expression: raw fury etching lines across his features, his fists clenching at his sides.
“Inform Matteo that our deal is over,” he barks. “There will be no more talks. Make it clear.”
“Yes, sir,” the intruder stammers.
“And Sal?” Michael presses, his voice a whip-crack.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Interrupt me with Miss Miller one more time, and you’ll regret it deeply.”
With a quick bow of his head, the man vanishes from the conservatory, leaving us in charged silence.
My pulse races, drawn to the fire in Michael’s eyes as he turns back to me.
His entire expression changes the moment he looks down at me though.
He rests his hand on my arm and begins rubbing it, the friction warming my chilled skin, a deliberate effort to draw me back from the distance his anger created.
“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says. “He never should have come in here.”
“It’s…it’s okay.” My voice comes out small, the words a reflex.
“It’s not okay,” he says, shaking his head. “It won’t happen again.”
“You were really mad.”
I look up at him, and he swallows, the motion revealing a crack in his composure. His eyes search mine.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
He cups my face then, the gesture intimate and apologetic. I lean into it hesitantly, my hands finding his waist, but the question bubbles up—what have I gotten myself into?
“Let me take you to breakfast now?”
“I don’t know,” I say, looking away from him.
He bends down until his face is level with mine.
“Katie,” he says quietly. “Please.”