Chapter Thirteen
Victoria
I wake slowly.
I wake naturally.
Like a person who actually slept.
For a few blissful seconds, I do not move. I do not think. I simply exist in the warm comfort of my bed, my face half-buried in the pillow, snuggled under the blanket, sunlight pressing against my closed eyelids.
Sunlight.
My eyes open.
The room is bright.
Not dawn bright. Not early morning gray. Bright.
I blink at the wall across from my bed, at the strip of light falling across the floor, at the clothes scattered like evidence.
My sweater near the foot of the bed.
One of my decorative pillows on the floor.
The wine-colored lace bra hanging off the edge of the nightstand like it was tossed with abandon.
Everything comes back at once.
It was tossed with abandon.
Mario.
His mouth.
His hands.
His body over mine.
Inside me.
Finally. Finally inside me.
His voice in my ear.
Mine.
I go completely still.
Then my entire body reacts.
Heat rolls through me, slow and deep, followed immediately by a soreness that makes me inhale carefully.
Oh.
Oh.
I am sated in a way I have never been sated before. Heavy and loose and aching in places that make memory flare hot beneath my skin. My hips ache. There are faint marks on my body that I can feel before I ever see them. My lips are tender. My scalp still remembers the grip of his hand in my hair.
And my pussy feels completely and thoroughly fucked.
I am sore.
Deliciously.
Embarrassingly.
I close my eyes again and press my face into the pillow.
The pillow smells like him.
That does not help. Nothing about that helps.
Because he is not here.
The space beside me is empty.
Cool.
Not untouched, though. The sheets carry the shape of where he had been. Where he slept. Where I had slept against him as if I belonged there, as if crawling onto Mario Conti’s chest after the most intense sex of my life was a perfectly normal thing to do.
A memory moves through me, hazy but clear enough.
Very early morning.
The room still dark.
A hand brushing hair back from my face.
“Victoria.”
I had made some sound. Not a word. Just sound.
“Cara,” he murmured, softer then. “I have to go.”
I remember forcing my eyes open and seeing him half-dressed beside the bed, shirt buttoned but not yet tucked perfectly, hair still slightly damp from my shower. His face had been shadowed in the low light, all sharp angles and dark eyes and a mouth I knew far too well now.
“What time is it?” I had mumbled.
“Early.”
I had groaned and closed my eyes again.
He had made an amused sound. “I have a meeting at 8:00.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes.”
I remember him sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. His hand came to my cheek, thumb tracing once along my jaw with such unexpected gentleness that even half-asleep, my throat had tightened.
“Sleep more,” he said. “And remember to eat.”
Even in my half-conscious state, I had managed to frown. “You’re bossing me around in my own bed now?”
“You didn’t seem to have an issue with it last night
Oh, that.
My entire body had flushed with heat that had nothing to do with the blankets.
I had opened one eye to glare at him.
He looked entirely too pleased with himself for a man leaving my bed before sunrise.
I had wanted to argue.
It’s what we do.
Instead, I had reached for him, wrapping my arms around his neck before he could stand. He had gone still for a fraction of a second, like the gesture surprised him.
Good. I like surprising him.
Then I pulled him down.
The kiss had been sleepy and soft, my mouth warm under his, my body still too exhausted to do anything more than hold on. He had braced one hand beside my head, the other sliding into my hair, and kissed me back. Slowly, deeply. Like he had time that I knew he did not have.
When he pulled away, his forehead rested against mine.
“Sleep, Victoria.”
“Bossy,” I had murmured, my eyes already closing.
“Yes.”
The last thing I remembered was the sound of him moving through my room, gathering the rest of his clothes, the quiet click of my front door below a few minutes later, and the faint, impossible feeling of being left both alone and not alone at all.
Then I slept.
Actually.
No dreams.
No waking with my hand between my thighs.
No cursing his name into my pillow.
No tossing, no heat, no frustration, no half-mad need building under my skin with nowhere to go.
Just deep, black, dreamless sleep.
For the first time in weeks.
I reach blindly for my phone on the nightstand and squint at the screen.
11:18.
I stare.
Then sit up too quickly and immediately regret it.
“Oh, my God.”
11:18.
I slept until 11:18.
On a Saturday.
I cannot remember the last time I slept this late. College, maybe. After finals. Or that one flu sophomore year when I slept for sixteen hours and woke up briefly convinced I had died.
My body clearly had opinions.
Loud ones.
I fall back against the pillows with a groan, then wince because even that reminds me of him.
Everything reminds me of him.
The ache between my thighs.
The tender spot on my breast where his mouth had lingered too long.
The destroyed state of my bed.
The fact that I am naked beneath the sheet and cannot even pretend there is any dignity left to salvage.
I’m not sure I’d want to if there were.
I lift the sheet and look down at myself.
There are marks.
A bruise low on my hip where his fingers had gripped me. A faint scrape of beard burn on the inside of my thigh. A red mark on my breast. My nipples tighten at the sight, and I drop the sheet immediately.
“Nope.”
My voice is hoarse.
I sound like a woman who screamed Mario Conti’s name repeatedly last night.
I cover my face with both hands.
Then laugh.
I don’t sound particularly sane.
It grows until I am shaking with it, and I have to press the heels of my hands to my eyes to stop the sudden, stupid tears.
This is absurd.
This is ridiculous.
This is the most illogical, poorly planned, catastrophically stupid thing I have ever done.
And I feel…
I feel.
Great.
I feel amazing.
I feel rested and sated and boneless and utterly, terrifyingly happy.
There is no other word for it.
This was supposed to get him out of my system.
One night.
One reckless, necessary, professional-disaster-adjacent night to burn through two weeks of sleepless torture and prove that he was just a man.
Granted, a dangerous man. A powerful man.
A sexually devastating man.
But still a man.
Not some untouchable force I had built up in my head because I was overworked and under-rested and prone to bad decisions when deprived of proper meals.
Except now I know.
Now I know exactly what his hands feel like. What his mouth can do. What he sounds like when his control starts to break. What his body feels like over mine, inside mine, around mine.
Now I know he stayed.
Not all night, but most of it.
He had not taken what he wanted and left before I could wake up.
He had cleaned me up.
The memory comes in pieces.
I was not fully awake, not fully asleep.
He used a warm cloth and a careful hand.
Then the mattress dipped again, and his body slid back in beside mine.
His arm pulled me against him.
I had been too exhausted to question it, too sated to be embarrassed, too far gone to do anything but curl into him.
He had stayed.
And then he had woken me to tell me he was leaving.
He didn’t have to do that.
He could have easily ghosted while I slept.
But he hadn’t. He had woken me gently to tell me he was leaving.
Then told me to go back to sleep and reminded me to eat.
I swing my legs over the side and sit there for a second, bracing myself.
My feet touch the rug.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Standing is a whole event.
My thighs tremble.
My body is sore in places I did not know could be sore. There is a deep, satisfied ache low in my pelvis that makes every step a reminder of everything that happened.
I take two careful steps toward the bathroom.
Then stop in front of the mirror.
Oh.
I look wrecked.
Truly wrecked.
My hair is tangled and wild around my shoulders, still bearing the evidence of his hands. My lips are swollen. My eyes are heavy but no longer hollow. My skin has color again, and there is something about my face I do not recognize at first.
Then I do.
I look rested.
Thoroughly fucked, yes.
But rested.
I lean closer to the mirror and see the mark on my breast.
I touch it with two fingers, and memory flashes hot through me.
His mouth there. Nipping and sucking relentlessly, alternating between teeth and tongue.
My knees nearly give out.
“Absolutely not,” I tell my reflection.
My reflection does not look convinced.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, and take a very careful shower. The hot water makes my muscles loosen and my skin sting in a few interesting places. By the time I get out, I feel slightly more human.
I take the stairs down carefully, mindful of my shaky legs.
Everything looks exactly the same as it always has.
But I know inside it’s different.
He has been here, eaten here, slept here.
Nothing is the same, nor will it ever be again.
I walk into the kitchen and realize I am actually hungry.
I open the fridge to pull out the leftovers and see new things in there.
I stare at them.
For a second, I genuinely wonder if I am hallucinating.
There are two neat paper bags on the top shelf of my refrigerator, neither of which was there last night.
One is from a restaurant I don’t recognize.
Regio. One is from a bakery I do recognize, but have never been able to justify buying from because their pastries cost more than some of my office supplies.
Next to the bags is a carton of orange juice and a couple of bottles of electrolyte drinks.
My cheeks heat.
Of course he brought me electrolytes.
Because apparently Mario Conti can fuck a woman so hard, she needs epic hydration.
I am feeling a little parched, though.
I reach for the orange juice, then stop when I notice a folded note tucked against the bakery bag.
My name is written across the front.
I pick it up gingerly and open it.
Eat. Hydrate. Do not work today.
M.
I stare at the note, then read it again.
“Do not work today,” I repeat under my breath.
The audacity of this man.
The sheer, breathtaking audacity.
I should be annoyed.
I am annoyed.
I am also smiling, which is deeply unfortunate and must stop immediately.
I set the note down carefully and reach for the other two bags.
I open the first one and find two containers of soup, a wrapped sandwich, and what looks like roasted vegetables and chicken. The second bag contains pastries, fruit, and some kind of small almond cake that smells so good I close my eyes and stick my nose in the bag to inhale.
Mario Conti has now ruined me in more than one way.
How will I ever eat a Pop-Tart again?
I hear his voice in my head.
Hydrate.
I roll my eyes at the empty kitchen, grab the carton of orange juice, and twist off the cap.
“Happy?” I mutter.
There is no answer.
I shut the refrigerator and lean my forehead against the cool door.
This is bad.
This is so bad.
Not because of the sex.
The sex was a catastrophic success.
No, it’s bad because I woke up alone and hated it. That was not part of the deal.
I take one container of soup and pull out a small pot to warm it in.
Except there is no deal.
There is no conversation. No boundaries. No agreement. No explanation for what this is supposed to be now that I have slept with the most complicated client of my career and let him order me around through a note.
While my soup warms, I sip on the juice and find that I’ve finished a full glass. Then I sit at my small kitchen table with soup, juice, and the note I’m absolutely not obsessed with.
I read it again.
Do not work today
I glance toward my briefcase by the sofa.
The access audit is not done.
The last comparison reports are waiting. Benjamin and Ainsley need assignments. The redundant access matrix still needs cleanup. I should at least open my laptop and—
I am a grown woman. A lawyer with my own firm. I do not take orders from men I slept with once— or any number of times.
Even if he made me come so hard, I think I briefly saw the afterlife.
I pick up my spoon and eat the soup.
It is good.
Definitely not adequate.
Wow.
I set the note down and give the soup my full attention.
It coats my tongue, rich and warm, with just enough garlic and herbs to dance across my taste buds.
The gnocchi is soft and pillowy, the vegetables tender, the broth creamy without being heavy. It tastes like the exact opposite of my normal diet of coffee and protein bars.
My stomach settles first.
Then my shoulders relax.
I close my eyes for one second and let the warmth move through me.
Okay.
Fine.
Maybe he was right about the food.
My phone buzzes on the table.
For one wild second, I think it might be him.
It is Ainsley.
I laugh at myself.
That is where I am now.
A text message comes in, and my body prepares for Mario Conti as if he might step out of the screen.
Pathetic.
I pick up the phone.
Ainsley: Did you ever get clarification from payroll on the department-level permissions?
I stare at the message for a moment, then look toward my briefcase by the sofa.
No.
Absolutely not.
I am not working.
I am eating soup. I am hydrating. I am not thinking about department-level permissions or Mario’s hands.
Me: Not yet. I’ll deal with it Monday.
Ainsley replies almost immediately.
Ainsley: Monday? Are you sick?
I smile into my soup.
Me: Something like that.
I set the phone facedown before she can ask anything else.
Then I pick up my spoon, take another bite, and let myself sit in the quiet of my kitchen, sore and rested and warm all the way through.
For the first time in weeks, I do not open my laptop.
For the first time in weeks, I do not make a list.
I just eat the soup Mario left me and try very hard not to smile every time I look at his note.
I fail miserably.