Chapter 19 #2
I lean my head back against his shoulder, surrendering to the sensation, to him. I'm completely at his mercy, a willing captive in his arms.
"This was a bad idea," I whisper breathlessly.
His chuckle is a dark, delicious rumble. "It was a brilliant idea." He nips at my earlobe, a sharp, stinging bite that arrows straight between my legs. "You still sore, Doc?"
I am. But it's a good sore, a satisfying ache that is rapidly being overshadowed by a fresh, urgent need.
It's not the point, though. I should've known that making excuses wouldn't work. I'm a psychologist. I know that better than anyone.
"Yes," I say quietly. "But that's not the point."
"Then what is?" he asks, his hand sliding down my stomach, through the cool water, to the heat between my legs. His fingers find my clit, and I gasp, my hips bucking against his hand.
I'm lost. The water, the sun, the feel of him touching me—it's all a dizzying, intoxicating cocktail.
"I'm not supposed to want this," I gasp. "You're my... you're my patient. My kidnapper."
A rough, ragged sigh escapes him. He goes still, as if my words have hit their mark. He rests his forehead against my shoulder, his breath warm and heavy against my skin.
It's a rare glimpse of vulnerability from him, a crack in the impenetrable armor he usually wears. And in that moment, I see him.
Not the dangerous, arrogant mafia prince. Not the demanding, possessive lover. Just a man. A man who is as caught up in this as I am. A man who is just as lost.
His fingers still rest on me, and I fight the urge to slide against them. To throw all caution to the wind and beg him to continue.
I slide my hand down and grip his wrist. Reluctantly, he pulls his fingers away, and I bite back a moan in protest.
"I know," he says, his voice raw. "I'm the worst thing that could have ever happened to you."
But he doesn't let me go. He continues to hold me, his arms a steel band around my waist.
"It's complicated," I whisper. "So, so complicated." My brain is screaming at me to pull away, to end this madness before it's too late. But my body refuses to listen. It's already betrayed me, surrendering to him completely. "And it just got a lot more complicated."
Because now I know. Last night wasn't just a one-off, a crazy, impulsive mistake. It was a catalyst. An awakening.
I've never felt this way before. This... alive. This... seen.
Even when he was being rough and demanding, there was a connection there, a raw, primal honesty that I've never experienced with anyone. He saw through the mask, the carefully constructed facade of the cool, professional doctor.
He saw the real me, the woman who is desperate for something more, something real.
And he didn't run away.
He leaned in.
He took what he wanted.
And he gave me what I needed.
I don't know how the hell I'm going to let that go. How I'm going to go back to my life, my carefully curated existence, after this.
He senses my surrender, my acceptance. His arms loosen around me, but he doesn't let me go completely.
He's silent for a long moment, the only sound the gentle lapping of the water against our bodies. I can feel the tension thrumming through him, the war that is raging inside him.
"I'm not going to apologize," he says, his voice hard. "For last night. For any of it."
"I'm not asking you to," I say quietly. "I was there too, Vito.
I was a willing participant. No!" I snap.
"I can't truly face it unless I accept accountability.
" I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
"I pushed you last night deliberately. I pushed you, knowing exactly what would happen.
I got the result I wanted, but I don't think I was prepared for the consequences. "
I let the confession hang in the air between us.
And in that moment, the dynamic shifts again.
I'm no longer just a victim, a pawn in his game.
I'm a player.
And I have no idea how to play this game. The stakes are too high, the rules are unknown, and the consequences... the consequences could be catastrophic.
But I can't turn back now.
What he says next is completely unexpected.
"Let's get you out of the sun," he says, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that he's trying to lighten the mood, to steer us away from this dangerous, emotional territory. "You're starting to look a little pink."
He pulls away, and now he's no longer holding me prisoner. He's not a predator playing with his food. He's just a man in the ocean with a woman who is way out of her depth.
I nod, my throat suddenly tight. I'm grateful for the reprieve, for the chance to catch my breath, to process the emotional whiplash of the last few minutes.
He leads me back to the shore, his hand on the small of my back, and as we climb out of the water, I feel oddly self-conscious now.
He must sense it because he walks ahead and grabs the throw blanket from the daybed and wraps it around my shoulders before I'm even fully out of the water. The gesture is surprisingly chivalrous, and it makes my heart ache.
"Thanks," I mumble, pulling the blanket tight around me.
He doesn't say anything. He just watches me, his expression unreadable.
But I can see it in his eyes.
The conflict.
The desire.
The fear.
He's just as lost as I am.
We walk back to the house in silence. The sun is higher now, the beach bright and beautiful, the sand hot beneath my feet. It feels like a different world, a different lifetime.
"What now?" I ask, my voice small.
He looks at me, a searching look that seems to see right through me.
"Now," he says, his voice a low rumble, "we have breakfast."
And just like that, we're back.
It's like nothing happened. The earth-shattering sex, the emotional confession, the dangerous game of cat and mouse in the ocean—it's all been swept away under the rug of a simple domestic chore.
I should be relieved. I should be grateful for the return to normalcy, for the chance to pretend, for a little while at least, that we're just two people who had a casual fling.
So why do I feel so... disappointed?