Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Caterina
For one breathtaking moment, the world falls away.
There is no fear. No blood. No memory of men with guns in the hallway of my casino.
There is only Adrian.
His lips on mine, his hand in my hair, the rough texture of his thumb against my cheek. He is solid and real and alive, and kissing him is like coming up for air after almost drowning.
The kiss is gentle at first, then it’s not.
There is a desperate hunger there, a raw need that mirrors my own. I pour everything into it. All the fear I’ve been holding back. All the adrenaline. All the helpless, terrified gratitude for the man lying in this bed with a hole in his side because of me.
His other hand comes up to my waist, fingers splaying against my back, pulling me closer. The movement is awkward, hampered by his injury, and a fresh wave of guilt washes over me.
I press closer, determined to drown it out.
This is what I need.
This is the answer to the cold, sick feeling that has been coiling in my stomach since the first shove at the blackjack table.
I shift on the bed, trying to get closer, trying to erase the last bit of space between us. My knee presses into the mattress, right beside his hip.
His hand slides deeper into my hair, tilting my head, and a soft sound escapes my throat. It’s a sound of surrender, of relief, of finally letting go of the tight control I’ve held onto all night. All week.
Every single damn day of my life.
His thumb strokes my jaw, a slow, deliberate caress that is so at odds with the desperate, consuming need of the kiss. It’s a small, gentle thing, but it feels more intimate than the kiss itself.
I want more. I need more.
I part my lips, a silent invitation he accepts without hesitation.
His tongue sweeps against mine, and a shudder runs through me, a deep, full-body tremor that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with him.
Oh God, I'm so turned on
This is crazy.
I know this is crazy.
I know I’m acting on adrenaline and shock and a dozen other emotions I can’t even name.
I don’t care.
I'm wet and aching with a need that has been building for a while, a need I've tried to ignore, a need that has suddenly become the single most important thing in the world.
My hand slides from the mattress, my fingers searching for the spot where the blanket meets bare skin. I find it, my knuckles brushing against the warm skin of his stomach.
I’m getting caught in a trap of my own making
He makes a sound against my mouth, a low, deep groan that I feel all the way down to my toes. His body tenses beneath my touch, and I can feel the muscles in his stomach contract. His grip on my hair tightens, and he kisses me harder, deeper, with an urgency that matches my own.
He is so warm. So alive.
I want to feel the solid beat of his heart against my palm. I want to trace the lines of the scars on his skin. With my tongue.
He breaks the kiss only to press his lips to my jaw, to the sensitive skin just below my ear. A shiver courses through me. I tilt my head back, giving him better access, my fingers tightening on the waistband of his sleep pants.
I want him. I want him with a desperation that borders on violence.
His lips travel down my neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His breath is warm against my skin. I can feel the soft rasp of his stubble, the gentle scrape of it over my pulse point.
“Caterina.”
My name is a low murmur against my skin, a warning, a plea.
I don’t want to hear it.
I shift again, climbing carefully onto the bed with his hands guiding me, attempting to straddle him.
It’s a clumsy, graceless movement, but I don’t care. I need to be closer. I need to feel the solid weight of him beneath me. Feel his hard cock slide between my legs—
His sharp hiss of pain cuts through the fog of desire like a shard of ice.
I freeze.
I pull back immediately, my eyes flying to his face. The moonlight from the window catches the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the tight line of his jaw.
“Adrian?”
My voice is a ragged whisper. I’m a breath away from panicking.
Did I hurt him? Oh God, did I hurt him?
His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow and ragged. He doesn't speak, but he raises a hand, a small, deliberate gesture meant to be reassuring but failing completely.
“Did I—” I start, my throat tight with guilt. I scramble to get off him, my movements awkward and frantic. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“No.”
His voice is a strained whisper, but it’s enough to stop me. His eyes flutter open, and they find mine in the dim light. There’s no anger in them. No recrimination. Just a deep, weary frustration.
“No,” he says again, a little stronger this time. “It’s not you.”
But it is, isn’t it?
I was so caught up in my own desperate need to feel alive, to escape the fear, that I forgot. I forgot he was hurt. I forgot he was bleeding hours ago because of me.
And now I’ve made it worse.
"Oh my God, oh my God. What is wrong with me?"
I cover my face with my hands, a hot flush of shame washing over me so intense it feels like a physical burn. I’ve crossed every line, every boundary, every shred of common decency I have left.
I'm not some hormonal teenager who can't control her impulses. I'm not some hysterical woman seeking comfort in the arms of the nearest available man. I'm Caterina Conti.
And I just tried to have sex with a man who got shot saving my life. Hours ago.
The man has open wounds. Currently. Because of me.
A bitter, self-loathing laugh escapes my lips.
What is wrong with me?
“Caterina.” His voice is closer now, gentler. I feel the lightest touch on my wrist. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I can’t look at him. I can’t stand to see the accusation, the pity, the… whatever he’s feeling right now. I’m a mess. A stupid, selfish, shameless mess.
"I have to go," I mumble into my hands, backing away from the bed in what I hope is the direction of the door. I need to get out of this room. I need to go crawl into a hole somewhere and die of embarrassment. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."
“Caterina.”
His voice is firmer now, a thread of steel woven through the pain. It cuts through my self-pitying spiral. He sounds like he did in the conference room. Like he did in the casino. In command. Unyielding.
I lower my hands.
He’s pushed himself up against the pillows, his face pale and etched with pain, but his eyes are clear and focused on me.
“It’s all right.”
“It’s not all right,” I whisper, shaking my head. "I-I-I attacked you. I practically jumped on you. You're injured and I—"
“You didn’t attack me,” he cuts in, his voice still quiet, but absolute. “And you didn’t hurt me.”
“But you just—”
“I moved wrong.” He takes a slow, careful breath. "It’s bound to happen when you have a new set of stitches in your side. I was warned."
He’s trying to make me feel better. He’s trying to take the blame, and it’s only making me feel worse.
“I shouldn't have come in here,” I say, my gaze fixed on the floor. "I don't know what I was thinking," I repeat. I feel like a broken record. A stupid, broken, horny—still so fucking horny—record.
“Adrenaline,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Fear. A near-death experience. It does things to your head.”
My head snaps up. He’s being clinical. Detached. He’s putting a label on what happened, putting it in a box.
He's giving me an out.
But what if he's right?
The humiliation is a physical thing, a hot, suffocating blanket, but the cold logic of his words is starting to sink in.
He’s right. I’ve been running on pure, uncut adrenaline for hours. And fear. God, the fear. It’s been coiled in my stomach like a snake since he grabbed my arm and dragged me across the casino floor.
Kissing him was an impulse. A desperate, primal impulse to feel something other than that cold, slithering fear. To feel life. To feel him.
He's the only thing that's felt real all night.
I take a step back, then another, putting a safe distance between us. The distance that should have been there all along.
“I should go,” I say again, my voice stronger this time.
He doesn’t argue. He just watches me, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
I turn and make my way to the door, my bare feet silent on the rug. I can feel his eyes on me the entire way, a physical weight on my back.
My hand is on the doorknob when he speaks again.
“Caterina.”
I freeze, my back still to him.
“Try to get some sleep,” he says.
I don't turn around. I can't.
I just nod, a stiff, jerky motion that he probably can't even see. Then I open the door, slip out into the hallway, and close it quietly behind me.
The hallway is dark and quiet, but it doesn’t feel safe. It feels like a long, empty corridor leading back to my own fears.
I don't go back to my room.
I can't.
The thought of lying in that bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single second of the last few hours—the fight, the fear, the blood, the kiss—it's too much.
I need to move. I need to think.
I need to get away from myself.
But I can't. I can't do that to Adrian.
Especially not after I fucking assaulted him.
The thought of him lying there in pain, because of me, is a fresh wave of nausea. So I'll just stay in my room, I guess. I'll be good.
I'll go to my room and just curl up in the fetal position and try to convince myself that Adrian's right. That is really was just the adrenaline and fear.
And not the fact that I want him so badly, it actually hurts.