Chapter 9 #2
"Maybe. But it is true." I tilt my head slightly, letting my gaze travel down her body slowly, deliberately, taking in every curve, every line, the way those leggings cling to her hips and thighs like a second skin.
When I meet her eyes again, I see the way she has been watching me watch her, and there is hunger there now, barely hidden.
"Do you feel something when you look at Luca? "
Her eyes widen slightly—surprise that I would ask, or surprise that the answer is yes, I cannot tell.
"I—" She stops, biting her lip in a way that makes me want to bite it for her. "Kind of."
"Kind of," I repeat, and I cannot help the small smile that tugs at my mouth.
"He's attractive," she says defensively, like admitting it is some kind of crime. The flush on her cheeks deepens. "But it doesn't matter. None of it matters because I am married to Dante and this whole thing is—"
"It does matter," I cut her off, taking another step closer until there is barely an inch between us, until I can feel her body heat mixing with mine.
"It matters because you could have all of this.
You could explore whatever this is between us—between you and me, you and Luca, you and Dante.
You could stop fighting and start feeling and actually let yourself have something good. "
"Good," she echoes, and there is something almost desperate in her voice now. Her hands come up to rest against my chest—not pushing, just there, fingers splayed over my shirt. I can feel the tremor in them. "You think being passed between three men is good?"
"I think being worshipped by three men who would kill for you is pretty fucking good, yeah.
" I cover one of her hands with mine, pressing it harder against my chest so she can feel my heart racing.
"I think having three men who know exactly how to touch you, exactly how to make you fall apart, exactly how to put you back together—I think that's better than good. "
She stares at me, and I can see her trying to process that, trying to fit it into whatever narrative she has built in her head about what this is. But her hand is warm against my chest, and she is not pulling away.
"You don't have to decide right now," I tell her, softening my voice slightly. "You don't have to agree to anything. Just think about it. Actually think about it instead of running."
"I don't know how," she admits, so quietly I almost miss it.
"How to what?"
"How to stop fighting." She looks up at me, and there is something vulnerable in her expression now, something that makes me want to pull her into my arms and promise her things I have no business promising. "It's all I've ever done. Fight. Run. Survive. I don't know how to just—stop."
God, she is beautiful like this. Open and honest and just within reach. I can see the warring emotions on her face—fear and desire and confusion all tangled together—and all I want to do is make the fear go away, leave only the desire.
"Then let me show you," I murmur, and before she can argue, before she can retreat back behind her walls, I cup her face in my hands and kiss her.
She goes rigid at first—completely still, every muscle locked tight like she is preparing for an attack. Her hands come up to my chest, pressing against me, and I think for a second she is going to push me away.
But then something shifts.
Her fingers curl into my shirt instead of pushing, and her mouth softens under mine, lips parting on a small sound that goes straight through me like lightning.
She tastes like coffee and something sweeter underneath, and when I deepen the kiss she makes another sound—needier this time, desperate—and suddenly she is kissing me back with an intensity that steals the breath from my lungs.
Fuck, she is responsive. Her whole body melts against mine, curves pressing into hard planes, and I can feel every inch of her through the thin layers of clothing between us.
I slide one hand into her hair, feel the soft curls tangle around my fingers, use the grip to tilt her head back and take the kiss deeper.
She whimpers into my mouth, and the sound makes my cock hard enough to hurt.
I want to devour her. Want to press her against this wall and strip those leggings down her thighs and find out if she tastes as good everywhere else as she does here. Want to make her make that sound again and again until she is hoarse with it.
But I do not.
Not yet.
I pull back slowly, reluctantly, and watch her eyes flutter open—dark and dazed and absolutely beautiful. Her lips are swollen from my kiss, her breathing ragged, and she is looking at me like she cannot quite believe what just happened.
"Think about it," I tell her, my voice rougher than I intended. "Just think about it."
She nods, still looking slightly stunned, her fingers still twisted in my shirt like she forgot to let go. I take a mental picture of this moment—her flushed and wanting and soft in my arms—and file it away for later.
I step back, giving her space even though it physically pains me to do it, and gesture toward the house. "Come on. I'll walk you back to your room."
She blinks, coming back to herself slowly. "I can walk myself."
"I know you can. I'm walking you anyway."
Because I want a few more minutes with her. Because I want to watch the way her hips sway when she walks. Because I am apparently a masochist who enjoys torturing himself.
We make our way back inside in silence, me following half a step behind her, watching the way she moves—still careful, still controlled, but some of the rigid defensiveness has melted away.
Her ass looks incredible in those leggings, and I have to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching out and grabbing it.
When we reach the bedroom she claimed as her own—the one with no door, the one Dante took as punishment—she stops in the doorway and turns to face me.
"Gabriel," she starts, then stops, like she does not know how to finish the sentence.
"Think about it," I say again, letting my gaze drop to her mouth one more time. "That is all I'm asking. Just think about it."
She nods, her tongue darting out to wet her lips again—a nervous gesture that makes me want to pin her against the doorframe and kiss her until neither of us can think straight.
Then she disappears into her room without another word.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway, tasting her on my lips, feeling the ghost of her fingers twisted in my shirt, my cock still half-hard and aching.
Dante is going to lose his mind when I tell him I kissed her.