Chapter 21 #2
“My job requires judgment.”
“You have judgment.”
“Not around you.” The words leave before I can stop them.
Her expression changes.
Not triumph. Not satisfaction.
Something softer and far more dangerous.
“That sounded honest.”
“It was a warning.”
She moves closer again.
I should step back.
I do not.
The moon is shining directly into the window now, throwing part of the room into shadow and catching the silk of her robe where it ties at her waist. She stops close enough that I can see the rise and fall of her breathing.
“You keep saying this is unprofessional,” she says.
“Because it is.”
“You keep saying I’m your client.”
“Because you are.”
“And if I wasn’t?”
The question hangs between us.
I should answer immediately.
I should say it does not matter. I should say the line is the line. I should tell her to leave, unlock the door myself, and put as much distance between us as possible.
Instead, I hear myself say, “You are.”
Her eyes hold mine.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you’re getting.”
She nods once, almost to herself.
Then her hands go to the belt of the robe.
My chest tightens.
“Don’t,” I say, almost desperately now.
The same useless word.
She hears it.
She also hears everything under it.
Her fingers loosen the knot.
The robe parts.
Then falls from her shoulders.
My mouth goes dry.
Completely.
For one second, I cannot think.
My vision tunnels.
Her skin glows in the moonlight. All of it. Soft, smooth curves. A small mole just above her hip. The delicate arch of her throat. She is perfect. Too perfect. Like something out of a dream.
Like a siren.
My eyes travel down her body, taking in every inch of her.
Her breasts, full and round. Nipples, hard little peaks that make my mouth water.
Her stomach, flat and soft. Her hips, curvy and inviting. And then... between those long bare legs I have spent too many hours pretending not to notice.
I can see the glistening wetness of her desire. She wants me.
And it's going to be my downfall.
I am so, so hard it hurts.
The towel is now a joke. A flimsy piece of cotton that is doing absolutely nothing to hide my obvious arousal.
My gaze snaps back to hers.
Her eyes are dark, her lips parted.
She is watching me. Watching my reaction.
She is not shy. She is not hesitant. She is completely confident.
Her eyes are dark, almost black in the dim light. They are watching me, hungry and knowing.
I am in so much trouble.
“Caterina,” I say again. This is a last prayer. A final desperate act.
She takes the final step that closes the space between us.
Her bare skin brushes against mine.
The contact is electric.
A shudder runs through me.
My hands, which have been clenched at my sides, ache to touch her.
It’s a physical pain, a deep, throbbing need that is completely separate from the gunshot wound.
Her hands go to my shoulders.
Her touch is light, almost feathery, but it brands me.
Her gaze is still locked on mine.
“You should leave,” I say again, but the words have no conviction. They are a hollow, breathy sound.
Her hands slide from my shoulders down my arms.
Her thumbs brush against my biceps.
I shudder again.
My control is fraying.
She knows it.
She leans in.
Her lips are a breath away from mine.
“If last night was only fear,” she says quietly, “then tell me to pick up the robe.”
I say nothing.
My pulse beats hard in my throat.
“If last night was only guilt, tell me.”
Still nothing.
“If I’m embarrassing myself, tell me that too.”
That snaps my eyes back to hers.
“No.”
The word is harsher than I intend.
Her breath catches.
“No,” I say again, voice rough. “You are not embarrassing yourself.”
Something in her face loosens.
Not relief exactly.
But close.
"You are, however, making it very hard for me to do the right thing."
Her eyes darken further. “And what is the right thing?”
“To tell you to leave.”
“Are you going to?”
I stare at her.
The room feels too small.
The house beyond the locked door feels impossibly large. Her father under the same roof. Her brothers somewhere down the hall or downstairs. Armed. Heavily. My men outside. A threat still moving around this family. A wound in my side that should make this entire conversation impossible.
And Caterina standing in front of me like temptation come to life.
“Yes,” I say.
The lie tastes like blood.
“So tell me,” she whispers, and the words brush against my lips.
I say nothing.
Her lips touch mine with the barest whisper.
“I want you.” Her voice is only for me. “Not because someone tried to kill me. Not because you were shot. Not because I’m confused. I want you because I want you.”
I close my eyes.
Only for a second.
Long enough to see last night again. Her mouth. Her hands. Her face when she thought she hurt me.
When I open them, she is still there.
My fantasy.
“You are my client,” I say, but even I barely believe myself this time.
"Protect me, Adrian," she says.
She leans in and kisses my throat.
My breath hitches.
Her lips are soft and warm.
I curl them into fists at my sides to keep from touching her.
She kisses her way up my jaw to the corner of my mouth.
"Put your hands on me," she murmurs. "Before I die of this."
I’m losing.
I have already lost.
I give in.
My hands come to her waist, carefully at first. Her skin is so smooth, so warm. The feel of her is like coming home after a long war.
On a soft groan, my fingers tighten, pulling her closer. She gasps as our bodies press together, her softness against my hardness.
Her hands slide up my chest, her fingers tracing the lines of my muscles. I wince as her thumb brushes near the dressing. Her touch instantly gentles, her fingers skirting the edges, learning.
Her body is so soft. So warm. So real.
My head drops to her shoulder.
My breathing is ragged.
Her arms come around my neck, holding me tight.
My body screams at me. Mine. Mine. Mine.
My head screams at me.
Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.
My body is winning.
She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are dark, her lips are swollen.
I need her.
I need to be inside her.
It is the most dangerous thought I have ever had.
My hands slide up her back, splaying across her shoulder blades.
She shivers, pressing closer.
My hands go into her hair.
Her head tilts back, bringing her lips back within reach of mine.
“This will only complicate things,” I warn.
“I know.”
“You do not know what this does.”
“To whom?”
“To my focus. To your safety. To the line I need in place.”
Her gaze searches mine. “And what does pretending do?”
I do not answer.
Because that is the question I have been avoiding since she walked out of my room last night.
What does pretending do?
It does not unmake the kiss.
It does not erase the fact that my body has been aware of hers every moment since.
It does not make her safer if the only thing it does is turn both of us into liars.
But acting on it could be worse.
Much worse.
“Adrian,” she says softly.
My name in her mouth is a problem.
It has been since the first time she said it, even when she hated me.
She reaches for my towel.
I catch her wrist before she touches it.
Her skin is warm under my fingers.
For a second, we just stand there. Her pulse beats fast beneath my thumb. Mine is no better.
“Last chance,” I tell her.
Her eyes lift to mine. “For what?”
“For you to pick up the robe and walk out.”
Her breathing changes.
She presses closer, her wrist still in my hand.
“And if I don’t?”
The last of my self-control goes out the window.
I release her wrist only to slide my hand up her back and into her hair.
“You should,” I say.
Then I kiss her.