Chapter 24
Birdie
I’ve been trapped in this penthouse for seven freaking days.
Seven days of pacing polished floors and glaring at guards who refuse to be intimidated by me.
Seven days of throwing the kind of tantrums that should have shaken walls, only to have Lorenzo lean back in his chair and smile at me like I’m the most entertaining problem he’s ever bought himself.
Seven days of hating how good he looks at the head of the dinner table, sleeves rolled, voice low, eyes always finding me no matter how hard I try to avoid them.
And worst of all?
Seven nights of dreams so vivid they leave me waking breathless, twisted in ruined sheets, reaching for a man I should never want.
I step out of the shower and scrub myself dry harder than necessary.
“Freaking pregnancy hormones,” I mutter under my breath. “Making me so horny I can’t see straight.”
“What was that?” Lorenzo’s voice comes from the other side of the bedroom door.
I freeze and my heart slams once against my ribs.
“What are you doing in my bedroom?”
“I came to tell you I’m going out of town for a few days.”
That gets me moving. I cross the room and yank the door open, not caring that I’m wearing nothing but a towel.
“What?” I ask sweetly. “Need to go check in with your wife?”
His gaze lands on me and goes very still.
It starts at my face, drops to the damp line of my hair, the bare slope of my shoulders, the towel clutched high over my chest, then lower, slower, until my whole body feels noticed.
My body, traitor that it is, notices back.
That is the only explanation for what happens next.
I let the towel fall.
It drops to the floor between us like a gauntlet. For one breathless second, neither of us moves.
Then I lift my chin. “Well?”
His throat works. Something dark and dangerous moves through his face, there and gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it.
“I’m going out of town,” he says, voice rougher now, “not to see Fran.”
I take a step toward him. Then another. My skin is still damp from the shower, my pulse loud in my ears, my pride hanging by a thread and my common sense already dead on the floor with the towel.
“Then you better do something for me before you go.”
His eyes lock on mine. “And that is?”
I don’t let myself hesitate.
“Fuck me.”
The words land in the room like a lit match. His jaw tightens so hard I can see the muscle jump.
“Birdie.”
“No.” I keep walking until I’m close enough to feel the heat coming off him. “Don’t use that voice on me like you’re about to say no.”
His hands flex once at his sides. He hasn’t touched me yet. That restraint feels almost obscene now.
“You’ve spent a week locking me in this penthouse,” I say, softer. “A week looking at me like you want to devour me and then pretending you’re too noble to do it. I am tired, Lorenzo.”
His eyes drop to my mouth.
“Tired of what?”
“Tired of pretending I don’t want you, too.”
That does it. I watch the last shreds of control leave his face. Not entirely. Lorenzo would probably die before he fully lost control in front of me. But enough that his hand comes up and circles my wrist, pulling me flush against him. He lowers his head and the look in his eyes is pure ruin.
“You should not have opened that door like this,” he says.
“Probably not.”
“You should not be asking me for this.”
“Definitely not.”
His thumb strokes once over the inside of my wrist. “And yet.”
“And yet,” I whisper.
He kisses me and it’s a week of tension and anger and sleepless nights crashing through me all at once.
His mouth takes mine like he’s been starving and furious about it, and the second I kiss him back I know I’m gone.
Completely, hopelessly gone. I fist my hands in his shirt.
He makes a low sound against my mouth that nearly undoes me all by itself.
Then his hands are on me—one at my waist, one sliding up my spine, both of them hot and possessive and somehow still holding back more than they want to.
That part fuels me even more. The fact that even now, with me naked against him and begging for the one thing I shouldn’t, he is still trying not to break me.
“Lorenzo,” I breathe.
His mouth leaves mine and drags along my jaw, my throat. “I’ll stop if you want me to.”
The words barely register through the heat pounding through me.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He swears under his breath and lifts me.
The world tilts. I gasp, wrapping my arms around his shoulders as he carries me backward into the room. He kicks the door shut behind him and the sound is sharp, final, sending another pulse of something wild through me.
“Still want this?” he asks, setting me on the edge of the bed.
His hands remain on my hips, steadying me, grounding me, and I hate how much that tenderness matters right now.
“Yes.”
“Look at me and say it.”
I do. “I want you.”
His eyes close for one brutal second. Then he kisses me again, slower this time somehow making it even worse.
He leans me back against the sheets like he’s trying to keep from crushing me with the force of his wanting, and I drag him down with me because if he leaves even an inch between us I might lose my mind.
I can feel how badly he wants me. It’s in every rough breath, every restrained touch, every pause where he seems to fight himself before giving me one little bit more.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Then die quietly,” I whisper back, and he laughs once, like I’ve struck him somewhere tender.
The mattress shifts as he braces himself over me.
The city glows beyond the windows. The room smells like clean sheets, my shampoo, and him. My body is one bright, aching nerve ending as he undresses. And when he finally gives me what I asked for, it is with my name in his mouth like a curse and a prayer all at once.
“Oh, god, Lorenzo,” I moan as he slides into me.
“Easy, cara,” he murmurs. “Let me do all of the work.”
His pace is brutally slow, which makes me feel each inch of him even more.
“Please,” I beg. “Fill me. Give me what I need.”
My nipples ache. My pussy aches. Most of all, my heart aches.
His head lowers and he captures a nipple between his lips. When he sucks, I moan.
“Your body is changing, cara,” he says, his hand spreading over me with devastating care. “You were beautiful before, but like this…” His gaze drifts over me, dark and reverent all at once. “Like this, you take my breath away.”
The softness in his eyes nearly destroys me. For one reckless second, I almost tell him everything.
But then his mouth curves, and he says, “Russo is a lucky man.”
Something sharp slices through the haze. “Don’t talk about him.”
His expression darkens, and the heat between us turns possessive.
“Why?” he murmurs. “Because right now, you can’t think about anyone but me and how you’re dripping all over my dick?”
I should answer him with something clever. Something cutting.
But he moves again, and the words scatter. Pleasure climbs so high, so fast, it leaves me breathless, arching, clutching at him as if he’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
“Oh God,” I pant. “I’m so close.”
His forehead dips to mine. His breath is rough. Controlled, but only barely.
Then, just when I’m trembling on the edge, he stills. The abrupt pause tears a sound from me.
“Lorenzo—”
“There’s something I’ve wanted to say,” he whispers, his voice so low it feels dangerous. “Something I should keep to myself.”
My heart stumbles. “What?”
His gaze drops between us to the curve of my stomach, then lifts back to mine.
“Sometimes,” he says, each word rougher than the last, “I let myself pretend this baby is mine.”
The room goes silent.
My breath catches so hard it hurts. There it is—that terrible tenderness again, the one that makes him look less like a ruthless man and more like someone standing too close to his own ruin.
“And what,” I ask, because it’s safer to be cruel than honest, “would a Mafia Don do with two babies?”
His mouth hardens, but he doesn’t look away.
I shake my head, forcing a brittle laugh. “You should be grateful it isn’t yours, Lorenzo. It would only make this mess worse.”
Something unreadable passes over his face then—pain, fury, longing, all of it tangled too tightly to separate.
And when he finally moves again, it’s with the kind of intensity that feels less like desire and more like punishment for daring to say it out loud.
When I shatter, it’s with his name on my lips and tears in my eyes. He follows a moment later, filling me. I reach for him to kiss him, but he pulls away, rolling to the side. I try like hell not to be hurt. This was just sex, and he thinks I’m pregnant by another man. That’s all.
I lie there staring up at the ceiling, my breathing still uneven and my skin still humming.
He turns his head and looks at me, one arm thrown over his eyes as if he can’t quite bear the sight of what we’ve done.
“That,” he says roughly, “was a terrible idea.”
A laugh slips out of me, breathless and tired and just a little hysterical. “You say that like you weren’t fully involved.”
He lowers his arm and fixes me with a dark look. He looks gorgeous. Far too much like a man I could love if I were stupid enough to keep making the same mistake. And since this is the third time we’ve ended up in bed together, maybe I am that stupid.
“When do you leave?” I ask.
Something shifts in his expression.
“As soon as I dress.”
I look away first, because that’s safer than letting him see the truth. Safer than letting him notice that I’m disappointed. Or worse—that some terrified part of me is already wondering what happens if he doesn’t come back.
I force my voice to stay even. “What do I do if something happens to you?”
“The guards know what to do.”
“And that is?”
He stands and reaches for his clothes, pulling them on with maddening calm, as if he hasn’t just turned my body inside out and left the rest of me to deal with the aftermath.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Lorenzo—”