Chapter 7 #3
“So fucking responsive,” he murmurs against my skin.
I feel how much he wants this. Wants me. His hard length presses against me through our clothes, the tension in every muscle, the way his breathing has gone ragged and desperate.
“Chloe,” he groans against my neck, pulling back just enough to speak. “Christ, you’re —”
I pull him back down, not wanting words, not wanting to think. Just wanting to feel. His weight. His heat. The slide of his tongue against mine. The way his hand is palming my waist and pulling me harder against him.
His hand slides down to grip my thigh, hitching my leg up over his hip. The new angle makes us fit together even better, and when he rocks against me deliberately this time, I cry out.
“That’s it,” his voice is pure sin. “So responsive; I love it.”
His mouth finds mine again, muffling my moans as his hands wander my body, moving down. Just a little more —
And that’s when reality crashes back in. Raffaello’s comments. His knowing looks. The way he keeps hinting that he’s seen me before, that he knows who I really am.
If I let this continue, if I let myself fall into whatever this attraction is with Basili, and then he finds out the truth. Finds out that I’m Delan Toa’s daughter. Everything will utterly explode.
He won’t just send me away. He’ll see it as a betrayal. The one he’s been waiting for all along. Proof that I am exactly the threat he suspected.
And Emmanuel will be caught in the middle of it all.
The cold reality crashes through the haze of arousal like ice water.
“Stop.” The word comes out strangled as I put my hands on his chest and push against him, breaking the kiss. “Stop, we have to —”
Basil goes completely still on top of me. For a moment, he doesn’t move, panting, his hand still under my shirt, his body still pinning me to the mat. Then, slowly, with a harsh swallow, he pulls back.
“Chloe —”
“Let me up,” I say, pushing against him again. I can’t look at him, can’t bear whatever expression is on his face right now.
That prompts him into action, and he moves immediately, rolling off me and onto his feet in one fluid motion. I scramble up on shaky legs, pulling my shirt down, trying to control my own emotions.
“Chloe, wait —”
“You made your point.” The words come out clipped, harsher than I intended, defensive. “I’ll just deal with Raffaello.”
“That’s not what this is about,” he says in frustration, reaching for me as he speaks. “I wasn’t trying to —”
I avoid his touch, slipping out of reach as I retreat back toward the doorway. Still not able to meet his gaze.
“I need to check on Emmanuel.” I use it as an excuse to escape, grabbing my shoes as I turn toward the door.
“Damn it, Chloe —”
But I’m already out the door, practically running back to the main house.
I don’t stop until I’m in my room with the door closed and locked behind me. Only then do I slide to the floor, pressing my hands to my burning face, and let the tears fall as I try to catch my breath.
What am I doing?
My lips are pouty and swollen from his kisses. My skull still feels like it’s on fire everywhere he has touched me. I can still taste him, still feel him, still hear his voice in my head.
I came here to help Emmanuel. To give him stability while he adjusts to being home.
I’m not here to develop feelings for his father. To explore whatever it is that keeps growing between us every time we’re alone. Definitely not to let him kiss me senseless on a training mat while all I can think about is tearing his clothes off and exploring every inch of his sculpted body.
Every moment I spend with Basili is a risk, to myself, to Emmanuel, to his peace and stability. I can’t risk everything by letting my guard down with the very man who would kill me if he found out the truth.
Because Raffaello knows. It’s only a matter of time before he is absolutely certain and tells Basili the truth.
I’ve got to be more careful. I need to keep my distance from Basili, and I need to stop letting him distract me. I’ve got to remember I’m walking a tightrope, and one wrong step will tighten the invisible noose around my neck.
Three weeks and five days. Then the month is up.
I just need to survive that long without falling. Either off the tightrope or for the Italian Adonis that is the Don of the New York Mafia.
A soft knock on my door makes me jump.
“Chloe?” It’s Maria’s voice, gentle and concerned. “I saw you come running inside. Are you alright?”
I take a deep breath, wiping the tears from my eyes and forcing my voice to steadiness. “I’m fine, Maria. Thank you for checking.”
“Alright, if you’re sure.” There’s a moment’s hesitation, and I can feel she wants to press me further. Instead, she thankfully relents. “Dinner will be ready soon. I’ll send someone to fetch you when it’s time to eat.”
Her footsteps fade down the hallway a moment later, and I’m alone again with my racing thoughts and the memory of Basili’s hands on my skin, his lips on mine, his eyes dark with need.
This is going to be the longest month of my life.
Dinner that night is awkward.
I sit at the massive dining table with Basili at the head, Emmanuel to his right across from me, and me to his left. The meal is perfect as usual — steak, roasted vegetables, and fresh bread — but I barely taste any of it.
I’m too aware of Basili beside me. Too aware of the way his eyes keep trying to find mine.
Emmanuel, thankfully, is oblivious to the tension between us, happily signing to me about a book he wants to read before bed.
I focus on him, grateful for the distraction, responding to his questions and trying desperately to ignore the heat that floods through me every time I accidentally meet Basili’s gaze.
“Boss?” Raffaello appears in the doorway, and I tense automatically. “Sorry to interrupt, but you have a call. It’s urgent.”
Basili’s jaw tightens. “I’ll take it in my office.”
Emmanuel and I both turn to watch him as he stands, dabbing his mouth with his napkin before folding it neatly and placing it over his plate. “Excuse me.”
As soon as he leaves, I feel like I can breathe again. Until I realize that Raffaello is still there, leaning against the doorframe, watching me in the same way he always does. It makes me want to scream at him.
“So,” he says conversationally, “how was the sparring session?”
“Fine,” I say, voice clipped as I take another bite of my food. Clearly relaying that I have no desire to hold a conversation with him. It doesn’t deter him, though.
“Just fine?” He pushes. “You both looked pretty worked up when you came back to the house.”
I give him my flattest stare. “Spying on us, were you?”
“I was doing my job. Making sure you were safe.” His grin is pure mischief now. “Though it looked like the only danger you were in was from the boss himself if necessary.”
I gulp at his words. He knows I’m hiding something. And sooner or later, he’s going to figure it out. The question is what he will do when he does. More importantly, what will Basili do?
Suddenly, three weeks and five days feel like an eternity. One I might not survive.