Chapter 4 #3
Oh my… instantly, I feel heat rise in my cheeks and make a strained effort to close my eyes before he catches me watching him.
The mattress dips as he gets into bed. He’s so close, even with Emmanuel between us, I can feel the added heat beneath the covers from his body. Can smell the expensive aftershave mixed with something earthy, masculine.
It’s going to be a very long night.
“Buonanotte,” he murmurs to his son as he kisses his forehead before lying on his back on his pillow. After a pause, he adds, “Good night, Chloe.”
Shit…
“Goodnight,” I manage, my voice slightly strangled.
I spend the next two hours attempting to will myself to sleep, but even in the small moments that I do sleep, it is soft and light. Each noise, each movement from the two other occupants of the bed, re-awakens my heightened sense.
So, I find myself staring at the ceiling, having an internal argument with myself.
This is ridiculous. I’m twenty-five years old. Just because I’ve never been around a man like this doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be able to sleep. Then again, who would be able to sleep when they were in the same bed as a ticking time bomb? Self-preservation is reasonable.
The argument goes on like this for several minutes before I have worked myself into such an anxious panic that I feel like I can’t breathe. I need air. Space. Something to clear my head and stop this spiraling sensation within.
As quietly as I can, I slip out of bed, grab my coat, and slip my feet into my sneakers before slipping out the glass doors onto the balcony. It’s cold outside, but I find that I am thankful that the snow hasn’t begun to fall yet this season.
“If you’re planning to run away, might I suggest the other door?” Basili’s voice behind me causes me to squeal in surprise. Whirling around, I find him standing in the doorway, shirtless still, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips.
Oh my God! I can’t help but rake my eyes up to his beautiful body. My eyes trace every line of his well-defined abs, the intricate tattoos that cover his chest and shoulders, the way the streetlights cause a sort of illumination to tint his already gorgeous skin.
“I —,” My voice cracks; clearing my throat, I try again, “No. I just, uh, needed some air. That’s all.”
“Chloe, it’s three-thirty in the morning.” He stretches and yawns as he says it, once again trapping my eyes with his gorgeous form. “You should be getting some sleep, not standing out in the cold.”
“I can’t sleep,” I admit dryly, suddenly finding my hands interesting as I wring them together to produce warmth.
“Why not?” he asks, leaning out the doorway, his arms stretched overhead, eyes locked intently on mine.
Because you’re in the bed, and I can’t focus on sleep when all I can think about is the fact that you’re barely wearing anything.
“Too much on my mind,” I say instead.
With a deep sigh, he steps outside, closing the door quietly, careful not to wake Emmanuel. Then he moves closer, and I instinctively step back until I hit the railing.
“Like what?”
I swallow hard. “Just… everything. There’s been a lot that’s happened in the last week. It’s hard to digest it all, I suppose.”
He moves closer still, placing one hand on the rail on either side of me and bending slightly so that he’s on my level now. “Thinking about running back home, Chloe? Back to the orphanage?”
“What? No. I promised Emmanuel I would stay with him. One month, like you said.”
“Then why are you out here?”
“I told you, I needed air.”
“Try again, cara mia.”
“Excuse me? Cara mia?”
“It means, my dear.” He’s even closer now, too close, invading my space, his body warm and distracting.
The proximity makes my heart race, and the sound of his voice as he continues causes it to stutter.
“You’re a terrible liar, Chloe. You give yourself away in the smallest of ways, the way you look to the side when you’re uncomfortable.
The way your hands clench into fists when you’re frustrated. The way your breathing changes when —”
“When what?” I challenge, lifting my chin slightly despite the fact that every self-preservation cell in my body is screaming at me to move, to run, to get away from him.
“When you’re nervous.” His eyes drop to my lips. “Like you are right at this moment.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Liar.”
“You’re insufferable and arrogant.”
“You’re infuriating, so I’d say we are even. Aren’t we?”
Our eyes lock in a challenge of wills, the tension so thick between us that you could cut it with a knife.
I gulp again, attempting to decide what my next move is, but before I can do anything, Basili makes it for me.
His hand comes up, catching my chin, tilting my face as he looms closer.
His touch isn’t cruel, but it isn’t wholly gentle either, and I almost hate the way his skin burns against my own.
“You drive me crazy, do you know that, Chloe?” His voice is low and rough now. “The way you challenge me. The way you refuse to back down and have to have the last word. I can’t decide if I want to throttle you or —”
He doesn’t finish his sentence; instead, he growls, and his eyes fall to my lips. It’s a low throaty noise, one that does something to my body that I’ve never felt before.
Then his mouth is on mine.
It’s consuming, demanding, not gentle or tentative. No, this kiss is so much more than any first kiss I’d ever dared to imagine. It’s a claiming that steals the breath from my body and clears the thoughts in my mind.
His hand slides from my chin to the back of my neck, cuffing me and holding me in place as his lips explore mine with practiced ease. His other hand comes off the rail, his arm wrapping around my waist to pull my body into his.
My body responds on instinct; all rational thought of how unprofessional, how wrong this is gone. My hands find his shoulders as my fingers run across the warm solidity of his form. And instantly, I’m kissing him back with a level of enthusiasm that I should probably be embarrassed by.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips as my fingers trace the line of his tattoos, and I open for him without thought. The sensation is euphoric, overwhelming, and intoxicating, and I can’t help but want more.
This feels like being consumed in all the right ways; it’s addictive. Basili makes a sound low in his throat, between a growl and a groan, and deepens the kiss further. His hand tightens on my waist, his broad fingers digging into my hip hard enough that I swear it will bruise.
My head spins, knees weak, and I find myself clinging to him like he is a lifeline. The cold of the night air is long forgotten by the fire suddenly ignited between us.
And then, just as suddenly as he started, he stops.
Pulling away, using his hand on my neck to create distance as he does so, not letting go of me entirely yet. His breathing is ragged, like mine, his eyes dark and dilated beneath the streetlights.
I can only stare at him with bewilderment.
“We should get some sleep,” he finally says, his voice rough despite the attempt at being dismissive.
Sleep. Right. That’s how this all started…
But instead of arguing, I swallow hard, nodding my head, not trusting my voice.
He studies my face for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he releases me and steps back, creating distance between us before motioning inside.
“Come on.”
I follow him inside on shaky legs, my lips still tingling, my heart still attempting to find its rhythm. We both climb back into bed in silence, and I find myself thankful that Emmanuel didn’t wake in the middle of — well, whatever that was that had just happened between us.
I’m acutely aware of Basali’s presence, even more so than before, and I can’t stop replaying that kiss as I drift toward sleep, hating how badly I want more, even knowing that’s an absolutely terrible idea
This time, sleep eventually comes to me. My dreams are filled with dark blue eyes and the dangerous man who they belong to, and my growing desire to be utterly consumed by him despite reality.