Chapter 35
thirty-five
Marco is still scowling when he pulls his face away from mine, having shut me up with a press of his stern, chiseled mouth to my tear-damp lips.
The second our eyes meet, his anger dissipates on the spot, leaving softness in his dark gaze. His big, brawny hand floats up to my scalp.
“You’ll hurt yourself,” he murmurs, drawing soothing circles over the tender skin. “And you’re wrecking your pretty hair.”
With exquisite gentleness, he touches his knuckles to my cheek, wiping at the tear tracks. His dark eyes bore into mine.
“Your mother is wrong,” he says, his voice ringing with quiet conviction.
“I want to look at you. I love your curls. You look lovely with your hair loose and your skin scrubbed clean. And you are not cheap. At all. Ever. I’m furious she said that to you; if you hadn’t hung up, I would be having words with her right now. ”
He seems to pick up steam as he goes. His free hand curves around my other cheek.
“I want you,” he repeats, vehemently. “Do you think I have bad taste?”
I can barely shake my head. His eyes flash, and he jerks his chin toward his bathroom counter. “That’s my good girl. Now, sit.”
Chastened, with eyes wide as saucers, I manage to balance myself on the granite. I blink as he turns to the sink, filling a cup with warm water before flinging open a medicine cabinet.
He looks sexy as sin in all black, particularly the thin V-neck sweater under his suit jacket. As I watch, he takes his top layer off and pushes his sleeves up, revealing muscled, bronze forearms.
Without a word, Marco stretches over me, scrunching water into my hair. He moves with practiced efficiency that I can’t help but admire.
“How do you know how to do this?” I wonder, sheepishly absorbing the concentration carved into his handsome face.
He sighs. “When my father died, there were a few months when my mom struggled to take care of herself. She struggled with basic tasks like doing her hair and choosing clothes. I wound up doing both for her for a time.”
Thinking of strong, silent Marco bottling up his own grief to help his mother through hers sends a fissure through my heart. My hands reach for him of their own volition, brushing over his chest. “I’m sorry.”
He dries off with a basic white washcloth and shrugs tightly. “It’s coming in handy, now. Have to take care of this pretty blonde hair. I’m a bit of a sucker for it, if you haven’t noticed.”
The notion that such a big, sexy man could ever be a “sucker” for any part of me seems absurd. An incredulous giggle bubbles out. “Really? You like my hair?”
He gives an emphatic nod, stern once again. “I do,” he replies, bending to loom right in front of me. “But, Alice, it’s more than that. I like you, okay? It wouldn’t matter what you did to your hair. My feelings aren’t about your hair. They’re about you.”
I feel dizzy. Feverish. Embarrassed and awed and maybe sort of… happy. Breath quivers out of my lungs as he pulls me into his arms, holding me against the length of his hard body. The warm scents of cologne and leather envelop me along with his muscle-bound frame.
“Alice…”
The rough timbre of Marco’s voice is the only warning I get before he presses closer, his hips tight to my torso. One hand skims down my chest, tracing the gaping edges of my new robe, while the other cups my cheek, lifting my chin.
For a long moment, he just stares.
At me? Why?
I imagine how red my eyes must be—and how low my breasts hang without a bra to prop them up.
Unbecoming.
My mother’s favorite word flashes through my brain, trimmed in neon. Wincing, I open my mouth to apologize. Before I get the words out, Marco says my name again. This time with… meaning.
“Alice.”
He sounds agitated and growly and…
Well.
Sexy. He sounds panty-meltingly sexy.
I blink at him and try my best to read the dark intensity filling his face. Is he… mad? No. His eyebrows aren’t plunged together. Annoyed? I don’t see a tick in his jaw… or any brackets around his lips…
Maybe… hungry?
He looks sort of hungry. Wild, actually. Heat glows in his dark irises, like smoldering coals.
Heat. Hunger. Oh.
OH.
He wants me. The side of his mouth twitches up when mine falls open on a soft, surprised gasp. One he, of course, hears. And, as always, Marco hears all the things I don’t say, too.
Yes, his small, sensual smirk says, answering my unspoken question. Good girl.
Maybe I should have been more prepared for the look on Marco’s face after everything that happened in the shower on Saturday night.
He told me how beautiful he finds me. He spent time making me feel good, holding me, drying me off, and cuddling me in bed.
And I’m still here, ensconced in his apartment.
But, no.
I have to remember why I’m here. And tell myself every day that this is part of his job.
Not real. Not forever. Just for now.
But that isn’t what I see, burning silently in his eyes. Only that bottomless entreaty. And lust hot enough to melt all the muscles in my core.
I don’t know what to do with it. In all my years of etiquette training and personality tweaking and makeovers, no one ever bothered to tell me what to do if I actually managed to attract a real, live man.
Marco watches my lashes flutter, reading my insecurity so easily. Electricity snaps through his depths.
Without a sound, he straightens and drop back a pace. Despite the scalding heat radiating from his features, his movements are measured. Unhurried, but not casual in any way. Slow and intent. A man who knows what he wants and knows it will wait for him.
He starts to remove his belt. My throat goes dry when he continues undressing, never pausing for a single beat. His fingers dip into his waistband to retrieve his gun before floating up flick his fly open.
His watch comes next. The clink of the metallic links against the bathroom counter feels jarring in the tense silence that swells between us.
Marco doesn’t seem to notice. He has already slid out of his socks and his shoes. His eyes burn into mine, staring while he finally shrugs his sweater off.
Even when my focus drops to where his erection bobs—the straining length curving toward his navel—I still find his gaze waiting for mine when I finally look back up at him.
My Lord, he is glorious. Just an absolutely perfect specimen of a man. The kind of male form I would pay to paint, if I had any talent for painting people.
I don’t, but I could imagine trying to recreate him on canvas.
All square angles, only softened by the round bulges of muscle rippling over his abdomen, filling out his pecs and his shoulders.
The shadows pooled beneath every hard ridge.
The unique bronze shade of his skin. Even the smattering of scars peppered over his left shoulder seem like part of a masterpiece.
My fingertips tingle, aching to touch. Marco doesn’t make me wait long. He takes a handful of quick, deep breaths before he finally closes the space between us.
And drops to his knees.
The position puts us face-to-face, pressing his impressively hard length into the edge of the cushion underneath me. Our gazes hold for a long moment.
I blink. Hi.
Every bit of irritation abandons him, leaving his gaze molten and soft. Hi.
His hands band over my hips, rubbing the fine silk covering them.
For a moment, his stare blazes a hot path behind his hands, following them to the frothy lace adorning the sleeves, over the simple sash tied at my waist, and, finally, up the fabric parted at my breasts.
He pauses there, running the tip of his finger along the exposed skin below my collarbone.
His eyes snap shut while he leans closer, pressing his forehead into my thigh. “Alice,” he murmurs, as if he has any right to be as breathless as I am. “You look so fucking sexy in this robe. It makes me want to do so many things to you, I can’t decide where to start.”
My lashes flutter in shock. “L-like what?”
When I stammer, a tiny smile touches the stern curves of his lips. “Like put my head between your thighs so I can finally taste you.”
“I—I—” I don’t even know where to begin. Finally taste me? As in, he has been thinking about it for a long time? And by ‘taste’ me, does he mean…?
What else could he mean? We’ve already kissed. And I doubt he wants to know what the inside of my knee tastes like…
“N-no—” My voice shakes so hard I have to bite my tongue and cut off the rest of my confession.
His brows arch, surprised. I brace myself for judgment or disappointment, but he only nuzzles his nose against mine. “No? You don’t like that?”
Lord. Eventually, I will run out of ways to humiliate myself in front of this beautiful man, right? Hopefully?
I swallow a sticky wad of chagrin and look down at my hands while I reply, “I don’t know if I like it. I was trying to say, no other guy has ever offered to—or, um, wanted t—”
Marco stretches up, his lips brushing over mine. “I’m offering,” he says, with a bite that dares me to doubt him. “I want to.”
His next kiss is quick, but desperate. He leans back just enough to bore his gaze into mine, underscoring his utter sincerity. “If you’ll have me.”
The ache between my legs throbs until my thighs clench around it. I don’t know why I’m hesitating. Habit, probably. While he waits for my reply, my mind automatically tallies up all of my inadequacies.
Surely, if he goes down there, he will see… everything. Up close.
And, yeah, I shaved pretty thoroughly this morning…
but I honestly have no idea what the situation down there will seem like, up close and personal.
Not to mention the cellulite on my thighs.
And what if the waxer missed a spot? I didn’t bother to check.
I never dreamed someone would be staring directly between my legs.
Marco senses my panic and brings both of his hands up to my face, cupping my cheeks until I look back into his warm, dark eyes.