Chapter Seven #4
I turn to face Mario in the small space. He has stepped inside behind me, and the door is still open, but it feels like the entire world has shrunk to this tiny, dark space.
The dim light of the entryway illuminates the sharp lines of his face, the dark intensity of his eyes.
“Thank you,” I say again. My voice is barely a whisper. “For the ride. And for… my car..."
I can't finish my thought, not with him standing so close. So close I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. I can see the faint stubble on his jaw. I can see the pulse beating in his throat.
I want to press my lips to that pulse. To feel the life thrumming beneath my tongue.
I want to know if he tastes as good as he smells.
I am so tired. So tired of fighting this. Tired of fighting him. Tired of fighting myself.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me. His gaze is a physical touch, a caress that’s more intimate than any hand has ever been.
And then he reaches out.
His fingers brush a stray strand of hair away from my face.
It’s the lightest of touches. A whisper of skin against skin.
But it’s the most intimate thing anyone has ever done to me.
My breath catches in my throat.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my chest, in my throat, in my fingertips.
His fingers linger on my cheek. His thumb traces the line of my jaw.
I lean into his touch.
I can’t help it.
It’s a reflex. A need. A desperate, hungry plea.
His eyes darken. The gold flecks burn like embers.
He takes another step closer.
There is no space left between us. His body is a solid wall of heat against mine. I can feel the muscles of his chest through my suit jacket. I can feel the hard length of his thighs against mine.
I can feel the evidence of his desire, hard and insistent, pressing against my stomach.
I am not imagining it.
This is real.
He wants me.
The knowledge is a shock, a jolt of pure electricity that arcs through me. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and utterly, completely intoxicating.
“Victoria,” he says. My name is a low growl, a primal sound that vibrates through my entire body.
His hands slide into my hair, displacing the careful pins as he gathers it in his fists. The slight sting on my scalp is delicious and deepens the pleasure and need building inside me.
He tilts my head back.
I am completely at his mercy.
I look up at him, my lips parted, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
His lips crash down on mine, hard and demanding.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting me, possessing me. He is not gentle. And he is definitely not asking.
He is taking.
And I give it to him so very willingly.
I give him everything. My body is no longer my own. It is a vessel for this feeling, this incredible, overwhelming pleasure.
My briefcase falls from my weak fingers, thudding onto the hardwood floor. My hands weakly grip his coat to hold myself up, to keep from melting into a puddle at his feet.
He walks me back until my shoulders hit the wall.
One of his hands leaves my hair and slides down my back, over the curve of my hip, and cups my ass, pulling me flush against him. I moan into his mouth, a low, wanton sound that I don't recognize as my own.
He swallows the sound, his tongue delving deeper, exploring every inch of my mouth.
He tastes of mint and coffee and something dark and dangerous that is uniquely him.
I’m so lightheaded from the kiss that my hands slip from his coat, and all I can do is press my palms flat against the wall for support.
I want to touch him. I want to wrap my arms around his neck, to run my hands through that thick, dark hair, to feel the hard planes of his chest beneath my palms.
But I can’t.
My body is trembling too violently.
I am completely and utterly out of control.
He breaks the kiss, his lips moving to my jaw, my throat. He nibbles at the sensitive skin there, his teeth scraping lightly, sending a fresh wave of desire washing over me.
Then just as fast, it's gone. He's gone.
The loss is so sudden, so profound, that I gasp, my eyes fluttering open.
He is standing a foot away, looking at me. His chest is heaving, his eyes dark and wild. His lips are swollen from my kiss.
He looks as wrecked as I feel.
I watch him as I take a deep, shuddering breath, my hand rising to my lips. They feel bruised, swollen. They feel thoroughly, completely kissed.
He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it for the first time since I've known him. He looks away from me, at the open door, at the dark street beyond.
A muscle works in his jaw.
"I want you, Victoria," he says, his voice rough, raw with an honesty that is more terrifying than the kiss itself. "I want to fuck you."
The words are crude, vulgar. They should offend me.
My knees grow weak, and my core clenches with a fresh wave of need.
"What's stopping you?" I manage to say, my voice a breathy whisper.
I'm tired of fighting. Tired of pretending.
I want this. I want him. I want to feel his hands on my skin, his weight on top of me, his cock inside me.
I want to be consumed.
His gaze snaps back to mine. His eyes are burning with a hunger so intense it almost scares me. He takes a step toward me, and I brace myself, expecting him to kiss me again, to finish what he started.
But he stops.
"You," he snaps. "You are what's stopping me."
I blink, confused. "I'm not—"
"You are dead on your feet," he says, his voice hardening.
"You have been running on fumes for days.
You have not eaten a proper meal, you have not slept.
" He gestures vaguely at me, at my suit, at my life.
"And I will not have you for the first time when you are not clear-headed enough to make that decision. "
Have me for the first time. He will not have me.
The words are archaic and possessive, and they should make me run for the hills.
They don't.
Instead, a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreads through my chest. He is not just rejecting me. He is protecting me. From him. From myself.
It is the most maddening, infuriating, and intensely romantic thing anyone has ever done.
"I'm perfectly capable of making my own decisions," I say, my pride reasserting itself, even as my body screams in protest.
"No," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You are not."
He takes another step back, increasing the distance between us. "I will not be a bad decision made in a moment of weakness."
And there it is. The truth. He sees my exhaustion as a vulnerability, and he refuses to exploit it.
My anger deflates, replaced by a grudging, reluctant respect.
And a profound, soul-deep disappointment.
I reach down and pick up my briefcase, my movements slow, deliberate. I need something to do, something to hold onto.
"What happens now?" I ask, my voice quiet.
"You shower, eat a real meal, rest for a bit," he says.
"Then what?" I press.
He looks at me for a long moment. The hunger is still there, banked but not gone.
"Then," he says, "we fuck."
My breath catches. The blunt, crude promise hangs in the air between us. There is no poetry, no romance. Just a raw, primal statement of intent.
And it is exactly what I want to hear.
"When?" I ask. My voice is a whisper.
"The sooner you get started," he says, "the sooner we get there."
He pulls my keys out of his pocket again and opens my apartment with the second key on the ring.
I'm too stunned to speak, my mouth hanging slightly open.
Tonight? This is happening tonight?
The exhaustion that was making me miserable minutes ago is now being replaced with a fresh wave of energy. A wave of adrenaline so potent it makes me dizzy.
When I don't move, he gives me an intense look.
"Victoria. Go."
He is herding me, but I go without a fight. As soon as I cross the threshold, he is right behind me, closing the door, locking us in together. And that is all it takes to bring the tension back, thicker than ever.
He leads me from the entryway and into my living room. His presence is overwhelming in my space. My apartment is small, cozy, and filled with my things. My books, my art, the soft throw blankets I've accumulated over the years. It's my sanctuary.
And he is an intruder.
A beautiful, dangerous predator who has just claimed my territory.
My living room is clean but lived-in. I can see it through his eyes. The half-finished book on the coffee table. The stack of magazines. The stray pair of heels I kicked off by the sofa last night.
He ignores it all.
He leads me to the narrow stairs that lead up to my bedroom and my bathroom.
"Go on," he says, pointing up. "Do as you're told."
I'm too startled to argue. I turn and climb the stairs, my legs feeling strangely steady, considering the circumstances. I can feel his eyes on me, watching my every step, and the heat between my thighs intensifies with each tread.
When I reach the top, I don't look back. I just go into my bedroom, flip on the light, and then walk straight into the adjoining bathroom to... do as I'm told.