Chapter 18 #3
Marco didn’t bother holding the door open for me this time.
He looked annoyed. Or maybe pissed? Hard to tell with Marco.
He never got angry like normal people did.
No yelling or swearing, just silent, simmering irritation.
Honestly, it was exhausting. If he was going to be mad at me, the least he could do was raise his voice so I’d have a legitimate reason to argue back.
I slid into the passenger seat, crossing my legs, doing my best to look bored instead of intrigued.
“You like him?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the road as if he were forcing himself not to look at me.
“Who?”
“Jonathan.” The name sounded almost as bitter as him.
I didn’t answer.
Marco’s jaw ticked. “Answer the question.”
I crossed my arms, letting my head tilt lazily toward him. “No.”
“Then why entertain it?”
“You already know why,” I said finally.
The car slowed at a red light, and he turned to face me. “You could do worse.”
I lifted a brow. “You volunteering?”
“You’re too young for me. Too immature.”
I smirked. “Immature? That’s a strong accusation, lawyer.”
He didn’t correct me this time. Didn’t snap that I should call him Marco. That was interesting.
“How old are you anyway?” I asked.
He looked at me sideways. “Too old for you.”
I eyed him. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
“Would it kill you to give me a basic answer?”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“What’s the cut-off then?” I teased. “Thirty? Twenty-five?”
“You’re twenty-two, Valentina.”
I shrugged. “And?”
His fingers flexed again. “And you act it.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is.”
“You don’t like messy things, do you?”
He didn’t correct me this time either.
“No,” he admitted. “You’re careless. Always expecting someone to pick up after you.”
“But I never asked you to.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, desperately trying to keep my smile at bay.
“No, but you have a real habit of putting yourself in situations where you need to be saved.”
“Do I?”
Marco didn’t answer, which felt pretty typical for him.
He’d been around a lot more lately, always showing up when things went sideways, silently judging me from across the room, appearing right when I’d started to think I was managing to survive on my own.
The fact I’d noticed his pattern at all probably said more about me than it did about him.
Because Marco wasn’t exactly a knight in shining armor.
More like a Grim Reaper in an overpriced suit, ready to collect when I inevitably screwed up again.
And yet he hadn’t. Not really. He’d rescued me—from Max, from that horrible event with the Clarkes—but he’d done so begrudgingly. If he hated cleaning up after me so much, why was he always the one to do it?
Was it his job, or was it me?
Maybe I was reading too far into it. Maybe I just liked the idea that someone—anyone—cared enough to keep me from falling apart completely, even if they seemed perpetually pissed about it.
Eventually, he pulled into my street and parked along the curb. “Well, thanks for the ride, mijo.”
“Marco,” he corrected angrily.
I slumped my shoulders. “Thanks for the ride, Marco.”
His jaw tightened at the thank you as if he’d never heard it before. Probably hadn’t—at least not from me. Gratitude wasn’t exactly my strong suit.
“Hopefully next time, you won’t need one,” he gritted.
“Yeah,” I said softly, finally reaching for the door. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Great,” he mouthed.
Was he this tense with everyone, or did I bring it out in him? God, I hoped it was the latter. At least then I wouldn’t be alone in whatever ridiculous tension was happening here.
Maybe he needed to get laid.
Hell, maybe I needed to get laid.
It’d been . . . Jesus, how long had it been? Longer than I cared to admit. Not since Sebastian, and God knows, that wasn’t exactly quality material. It was always rushed and messy and tangled up in way too much trouble to be worth it. Fun, sure. But trouble nonetheless.
Marco though . . . That was different. He wasn’t messy. He was the opposite: structured, organized, annoyingly disciplined. Like those people who wake up at 5:00 a.m. just because they enjoy it, or drink green smoothies without being forced at gunpoint like Sasha.
And he was attractive. Stupidly attractive. Even when he was frowning at me like he wanted to strangle me—which, if I’m honest, was about 80 percent of the time. Especially lately. Especially tonight.
“Maybe next time, you shouldn’t offer one,” I said as I opened the car door.
By the time I’d stepped out, Marco was already by my side, following me up the steps of my building.
“Then stop being a problem for me. The men. The drinking. The constant need for negative attention instead of just doing what you’re told.” His voice was quiet. It sent a thrill up my spine. “You could’ve walked away from that table, Valentina. But you had to put on a show.”
“If you think Max’s little FBI project is the man for me, you’re dumber than I thought.”
“I don’t give a fuck who you end up with.”
“Is that right?” I asked as I reached the door and unlocked it.
Marco followed me inside.
“Do you have his number, then? The Fed,” I clarified. “Maybe I’ll reach out to him.”
His lips parted like he was about to say something else, but then he hesitated. Like he was just now realizing where he was.
Inside.
Alone with me.
His eyes skimmed between mine, then to my lips. “I’m not giving you his number.”
“Oh?” I arched a brow, taking a slow step forward. “Afraid I’ll embarrass you? Or worse, worried I might actually like him?”
His tongue ran along his teeth, the muscle in his jaw working as he stared at me. “You’d eat the poor man alive.”
I couldn’t help the slow smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth.
I hated how much I liked the sound of that.
He wasn’t wrong. Jonathan was too sweet, too neat, probably still called his mom every Sunday, listened to finance podcasts on purpose, and got emotional over his fantasy football league.
In other words, he was everything I’d bulldoze without even trying and then spend a solid two weeks feeling guilty about afterward.
But Marco? Marco wasn’t a nice man.
He was something else entirely. Something messy and complicated, a little mean. He wasn’t boyfriend material; he was the one-night stand you regretted enjoying. The fight you picked just to feel alive.
“You’re probably right,” I finally admitted.
I tilted my head, watching the way his jaw tightened again as if he were barely holding back. He didn’t respond. He just stood there quietly, giving nothing away.
“But I think you,” I said, dragging my hand to his tie and pulling on it gently, “could handle me just fine.” I said this quietly—too quietly, probably. Quiet enough that it felt more honest than I meant for it to, less like flirting and more like admitting something I’d rather keep hidden.
“No,” he murmured gently.
“No?” I whispered back, suddenly aware of how close we were standing; how his breath ghosted warmly against my cheek
He looked at me like he wanted to kiss me.
“You’re too messy,” he argued.
My heart twisted slightly. “I know what I want, lawyer. That doesn’t make me messy.”
“It makes you impulsive,” he corrected.
“If impulse scares you, maybe you’re not the man I thought you were.”
I waited for him to pull away. He didn’t, so I tugged on his tie even more—not to provoke him, not to force it, but because I wanted to know if he’d stay still or lean in.
And he leaned in.
He could pretend all he wanted—that he was above this, above me—but when it was just us, when it was quiet enough that even our breathing sounded loud, his body remembered what his mouth refused to say.
He wanted me, and it was killing him.
I stepped back, pulling him with me, backing us into the wall or the door or the edge of some invisible line we kept pretending we wouldn’t cross. I didn’t care to look.
He hated it. I could see it right there in the knot between his brows. He was furious with himself for giving in to me.
His hands slid up, threading into my hair and pulling my head back. My scalp tingled from how gently he did it. He knew he couldn’t trust himself if he grabbed me any harder. It was as if he were holding me in place to keep himself from ruining me completely.
The moment his fingers settled on the back of my head, that was when it felt like I couldn’t breathe anymore. It was the way his thumbs traced the edges of my jaw that really pulled me in. It felt like he was admiring me in a way I’d never felt before.
And now I really couldn’t breathe. Not from nerves, but from the realization Marco already knew how this was going to end. That this wasn’t a choice—not anymore. Not for either of us.
Because not kissing me would be a crime.
He paused and tilted my chin up. His eyes locked on mine, and his thumb brushed along my bottom lip.
I could tell by how he held me still that he was hesitating.
And what was I doing? Clearly not thinking as much as he was.
I was just standing there, heart pounding against my ribs, trying not to show how badly I needed him to do it already.
To stop pretending.
To stop thinking.
To stop holding back.
Kiss me.
Kiss me.
Kiss me.
And then, finally, he did.
His lips parted against mine, slow enough that he wanted me to feel every second of it.
He kissed me in a way that burned. His tongue brushed against mine as if he’d been waiting weeks to taste me, his lips moving against mine as if he wanted to memorize the shape of my mouth, to find the exact spot where I sighed into him.
It wasn’t fast. It was slow, and slow meant intention.
Slow meant there was nothing accidental about this.
Slow meant Marco knew exactly what he was doing, and he still couldn’t stop.
I could taste the frustration on his tongue—the irritation and the ache and all the things he’d been swallowing down for months.
All the things he refused to name. It bled into me.
Then, before I could get my brain to catch up to my body, his hand slid lower. His fingers curled around my waist, pulling me closer, until my body was flush against his.
I gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed it down as if it were his. He was collecting every sound, every inhale I made, like proof. Proof I wanted him.
He didn’t give me a second to catch up. Didn’t give me a second to breathe. He kissed me deeper, as if every press of his lips was a punishment I deserved. Maybe he was furious it felt this good; that no matter how much he tried to keep me at arm’s length, this was inevitable.
His tie was still wrapped around my fingers, caught between us. Proof I’d pulled him into this. Proof he’d let me. He mumbled something under his breath—something irritated that I didn’t catch—as he backed me closer to the bedroom
When he sat me down on the edge of the bed, he nudged my legs further open with his knee.
The moment his lips found my neck, my nails found his back. I shifted underneath him, pushing him off me. When he pulled away, I lifted myself from the mattress and moved onto his lap, both legs straddling his.
His eyes were narrowed, watching me carefully.
I smirked, rolling my hips slightly, just to see how much patience he actually had. Not much. His fingers dug into my thighs, his grip bruising, like he was telling me without telling me how close he was to flipping us back over.
I leaned down, lips barely brushing his.
And then I felt the bed move.
The entire bed had buckled beneath us.
I stilled, and Marco did too. His hands were still on my hips, and my hands were still pressed against his chest. I wanted to laugh. This had never happened before.
The mattress tipped at an angle, dipping to the side, where the frame had given out beneath us. Slowly, I looked down at him, lips parting.
He was already looking at me.
I smirked. “You break all the furniture you fuck on?”
His jaw ticked, fingers flexing once against my skin before he dragged them up my thighs, gripping just hard enough to remind me exactly where I was. Exactly how we’d gotten here.
I didn’t really care about the bed; I was still thinking about how his hands were still on me. How he was still beneath me. How his suit was still on him.
I leaned forward, palms pressed against his chest, tilting my head slightly. “You gonna fix it?”
“Fix what?”
I let my hips roll just slightly. Just enough to feel him beneath me. Just enough to make his breath hitch, his fingers pressing harder against my thighs.
“The bed.”
His eyes darkened. “You bought cheap furniture. Buy a new one.”
I smirked. “And here I thought you were a problem solver.”
He shifted beneath me, moving his hands impatiently. Then I was on my back with his hard body pressed against mine. He was teasing me again, hovering his mouth a breath away from mine.
His hand was still on my hip, thumb brushing against the sensitive skin beneath the hem of my dress. His other hand stayed braced beside my head, keeping me caged beneath him.
I wasn’t used to Marco like this. I wasn’t used to wanting him like this.
My hands slid down his chest, feeling the fabric of his shirt and the buttons I wanted to undo. I kissed him again. I couldn’t help myself. My breath caught, and he felt it. Smirked against my mouth like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
My fingers found his belt and unbuckled it, the metal clinking softly as I worked the leather free. Marco didn’t stop me. If anything, he encouraged it, his breath hitching slightly when I dragged my nails over the waistband of his slacks.
I was dizzy with him.
The smell of cedar and smoke, of that ocean-breeze fabric softener . . . the warmth of his breath, the way his hand flexed possessively against my hip . . . I thought it was numbing.
And then—
His phone rang.
The sound shattered the moment like a bucket of cold water.
Marco ignored it.
At first.
Let it ring once.
Twice.
Three times.
His forehead dropped against mine.
To my complete and utter despair, the phone kept ringing.
I wanted him to ignore the call like he had before. Now wasn’t the time for a phone call. Not when I was still burning from the touch of him. I didn’t want to feel desperate, but that was exactly what I felt when he turned away from me and answered.
“Grey.”
A pause.
I propped myself up on my elbows, watching him.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’ll be there.”
He hung up without another word. Didn’t even bother to look at me as he fixed his belt and adjusted his tie, already halfway to the damn door.
I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or pissed, but when he reached for the handle without so much as a glance my way, I realized I was definitely pissed.
“What—no goodbye?”
And without another word, he walked out and slammed the front door behind him.
Damn lawyer.