4. Aurora
4
Aurora
My brother must really trust this man.
It’s a wonder I haven’t met him yet.
To leave me alone with someone else is a miracle.
At the same time, it’s left me yearning for something new.
But beneath the unease, there’s something else—a restless pull low in my stomach.
The thrill of the unknown.
The dangerous, foolish hope that maybe, just maybe, this man could give me what I want.
“You shouldn’t get too close,” he warns, his voice deep.
No longer from sleep, there’s a warning behind each word.
“Ren says I need to keep my distance.”
“Ren isn’t here.” I don’t need to point out the obvious, I’m sure he’s well aware.
It’s why he’s so tense, probably worried about crossing lines.
The island stools sit untouched—too far, too polite for what I want.
So I aim for the counter instead, palms braced against the edge as I try to hoist myself up.
It should be easy. It used to be easy.
But now my arms tremble, my cheeks flush, and it has nothing to do with the effort and everything to do with the weight of his gaze burning into me.
A clatter interrupts my struggle—the cardboard box hitting the counter.
Then he’s there, crowding into my space with a low murmur.
“Troublesome in every way.”
His hands sear through the thin fabric of my shirt as they grip my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
The world tilts, and suddenly I’m perched on the edge, his hips slotting between my knees like they belong there.
He doesn’t pull back.
Just lingers, like he doesn’t want to move either.
“Happy now?” His words rumble through me, teasing and rough.
This must be why Ren kept me hidden away.
He didn’t want me caving to the first man to cross my path.
Look at me now, desperate for his attention.
Catching my bottom lip between my teeth, I nod.
My breath hitches as his hands glide down my sides—rough palms skimming the curves of my hips, fingers tracing the sensitive skin of my thighs like he’s memorizing every inch.
Heat pools low in my stomach, liquid and insistent, spreading lower until I’m throbbing with it.
A shiver wracks through me when he squeezes my knees, his grip just shy of too much , and the sigh that escapes my lips is embarrassingly wanton.
Then he pulls away.
The sudden absence of his touch is a physical ache.
Cold air rushes in where his body had been, and I have to bite back a whimper.
Rocco lets out a small grunt before returning to the preparation of his meal.
It’s not some difficult recipe, but he curses nonetheless through the process.
“Can’t remember the last time I had to cook for myself,” he complains as he shoves a container into a microwave.
“Ren can afford a chef. Instead, he buys prepackaged meals.”
“I like those.” Curling my fingers against my lap, I squirm when his gaze flicks over.
“He gets them for me.”
“You’ve never had a proper meal then.” Clicking his tongue, he turns at the beep and curses again when he burns himself.
He curses a lot.
Bringing the steaming dish in my direction, I have to point out where our silverware is.
Once he’s gotten what he needs, he doesn’t move to sit down.
Instead, he lingers close enough for the aroma of food to fill my lungs.
“Tell me about yourself, angel.” Sinking his fork into one of my favorite pasta dishes, he looks at it like the meal is a crime.
Angel . He already has a nickname for me.
So innocent. Hardly fitting with the sorts of thoughts that have been crossing my mind as of late.
I watch, transfixed, as he lifts the bite to his mouth but doesn’t eat.
Just holds it there, sauce dripping onto the platter, his eyes locked on mine.
Waiting.
My knees press together to contain the licks of heat he’s causing.
“What do you want to know?”
He smirks, finally taking the bite.
“Everything.”
He makes it sound like I might have something interesting to say.
In truth, I’m rather boring.
My hobbies are lacking.
I enjoy the arts. Ren usually buys me whatever I want whenever I want to try something new.
I’ve taught myself how to play the piano, but who wants to hear about that?
A few of the paintings on the wall are mine.
I can tell him about the books I have, but the collection is small.
“My sister is big on reading,” he mumbles more to himself, almost like an afterthought.
Like him, I want to know more.
Not just about the ugly side of what he does, assuming he gets his hands dirty like Ren.
I want to know about the good, too.
“What’s her name?” Nudging the cabinet door below with my heels, I watch the way his face twists.
Sensitive topic.
“Camellia.” Despite his expression, he answers.
“Pretty name.” My fingers skim his shoulder—a peace offering, a distraction.
His muscles tense under my touch, heat radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“I’m… pretty boring,” I confess, tilting my head.
“Most days, I have to invent ways to keep myself entertained.”
His nostrils flare, the only tell that my touch affects him.
“Am I your newest target?”
“No.” I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste copper.
“I lose interest fast. But you?” My thumb brushes the pulse point at his throat.
“You’re nothing like the others, Rocco. Not even close.”
His fork clatters onto the platter, abandoned.
Before I can react, his hand snaps out, capturing my wrist. His grip isn’t harsh, but it’s unshakable.
Slowly, deliberately, he brings my palm to his lips.
When he speaks, his breath fans across my fingers.
“Angel,” he murmurs, “if it’s entertainment you want?” His teeth scrape my pulse point—not enough to hurt, just enough to make my breath hitch.
“I’ll make sure you never get bored again.”
The promise in his voice is concrete, causing my pulse to race.
I believe him. Even if my brother suddenly pops up, I don’t think even Ren could pull us apart.
Not while we’re like this.
Then his hand moves back to my knee, his thumb sweeping over the sensitive skin behind it.
My breath stutters. I’m already leaning into him, my pulse pounding where his fingers almost brush higher—
But he stops.
His nostrils flare, his jaw tightening like he’s warring with himself.
For one dizzying moment, his gaze flicks to the apex of my thighs, pressed tight against the counter’s edge.
I see the hunger there, dark and liquid.
Then he drags his palm away, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
“Later.” With promise in his voice, he leaves me dizzy.
I don’t know what he has in mind, but later can’t come soon enough.