Chapter 3
Three
Sloane
His mouth tastes like whiskey and bad decisions and I am drowning in both.
My legs are locked around his waist, my arms wound tight around his neck, and Massimo Santoro is carrying me down a dark hallway while kissing me like I'm oxygen and he's been holding his breath for years.
His hands grip the backs of my thighs, broad palms and rough fingers pressing into bare skin where the hem of my dress has ridden up past the point of decency.
Every step he takes rocks his body between my legs and the friction sends sparks tearing through my core with a fiery need to feel this man inside me.
I know who he is. I have known since the elevator doors opened and I found him standing in the hallway with his sleeves rolled up and his whiskey eyes burning into mine.
My father's best friend. The man I have been stupidly, recklessly, painfully in love with since I was sixteen years old and watched him argue a case at my father's dinner table and thought oh no, this is going to be a problem.
And I can't say his name. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
No names. His rule. My lifeline. Because the second his name leaves my lips, this fairytale burns to the ground and I go back to being Harrison Whitmore's invisible daughter.
So I swallow his name and kiss him harder.
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm kissing a man who thinks he's holding a bold, anonymous stranger, and the bold anonymous stranger is quietly losing her mind because she's been rehearsing this moment in the shower for the better part of a decade.
If he knew, he'd probably set me down very gently, call my father, and pour himself a much larger whiskey.
He carries me through a doorway and the room opens up around us.
Moonlight pours through uncovered windows, painting everything in pale blue and silver.
A king-sized bed dominates the space, dark sheets, clean, and the whole room smells like his cologne.
Woodsy and sharp with warmth underneath.
The scent sinks into me and every muscle in my body loosens because I have been breathing this man in from across rooms for a decade and now my senses are soaked with his essence.
This is where he sleeps. Where he wakes up alone every morning and puts on his armor before facing the world. I know something about that routine.
He sets me down at the edge of the mattress. My heels click against the hardwood. For a second we just stand there. His hands rest on my waist. My fingers grip the front of his shirt. Our breathing fills the quiet, ragged and uneven, and his forehead drops to rest against mine.
"Tell me what you want." His voice is low, rough.
The vibration of it rolls through my body and pools between my thighs.
His thumb traces slow circles against my hip through the fabric of my dress.
"Tell me and I'll give it to you. I had this whole idea of devouring you like a beast if you showed up and now that I've held you, kissed you and breathed in your essence, I need you to tell me to take it easy.
" His fingertips trace my cheek like I'll shatter if he presses too hard.
"I never want to hurt you."
Not a chance. He could never hurt me. I know this deep in my soul.
"I want all that and more." I want his hands on every inch of me and his mouth on every inch after that. I want to know what his weight feels like pressing me into the mattress and what his face looks like when he loses control.
I also want to throw up because I'm terrified.
Because I am about to be naked in front of a man for the first time in my life and this man has no idea he's about to unwrap something no one else has ever touched.
Get a grip, Whitmore. You walked thirty-three floors up to this moment. You don't get to chicken out now.
"I want you to keep kissing me." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I want you to stop asking questions and just..." I exhale against his lips, shaky, honest. "Show me."
His mouth finds mine again. Slower this time. Deeper. His tongue slides against mine and I moan into him, pulling him closer because if there is any space between his body and mine I will fill it with doubt and I cannot afford doubt right now.
His fingers find the belt at my waist. He works the buckle loose with one hand, patient, unhurried, and the leather slides free.
The dress loosens around me. His palms smooth up my sides, over my ribs, and the heat of his hands soaks through thin cotton with nothing between his palms and my bare breasts except a single layer of fabric.
His thumbs graze the outer curves and my breath catches hard enough to stutter.
"Breathe." His lips brush my jaw. "I've got you."
I breathe. But it takes a helluva lot of effort.
He pulls the dress over my head in one fluid motion.
Cool air hits my bare skin and I shiver, standing in front of him in nothing but my red T-strap heels and the stubborn bravery that got me through the door.
No bra. No panties. I am completely naked in front of a man for the first time in my life and the urge to cover myself with my hands is so strong my fists clench at my sides.
"Oh, fuck me," I whisper under my breath.
Not an invitation. A status report. I am standing in nothing but vintage heels in front of a man who could ruin my life with a single phone call to my father, and the fact that I'm not running tells me everything I need to know about how far gone I really am.
His eyes move over me. Slow. Deliberate.
His gaze tracks every curve, every freckle, every flaw with a focus that makes my skin burn.
His jaw flexes. A muscle jumps in his cheek.
His nostrils flare on a sharp inhale and the sound he makes, low in his throat, is not a word.
Raw and male and involuntary. My nipples tighten under the weight of his stare and heat floods my chest and neck in a blush I can feel all the way to my ears.
"Dio." He says it under his breath. His hands reach for me and stop. Curl into fists at his sides. Holding himself back.
No man has ever looked at me like this. Not Marco and definitely not Maximus.
Not a single one of the beautiful disasters I've collected over the years like broken souvenirs.
None of them made it this far because I never trusted any of them enough to let them.
And here I am, bare and trembling in front of a man whose name I can't say, and I trust him more than every man I've ever dated combined.
Because he earned it eleven years ago in a hallway I don't talk about. I'm giving my first time to the only man whose hands I trust with what every other man tried to take. If that makes me stupid or reckless or pathetically romantic, I'll take all three and ask for seconds.
That should terrify me. It does terrify me. But not enough to leave.
My fingers find his buttons. They're shaking again. I fumble the first one and a breathless laugh escapes. "Sorry. Motor skills are offline."
He takes my hands. Brings my fingers to his lips and presses a kiss against my trembling knuckles, his eyes holding mine, warm and steady. Then he lets go and unbuttons the shirt himself, pulling it free from his slacks and shrugging out of it.
"Holy shit." The words fall out of my mouth before I can catch them.
Moonlight catches every carved edge. Broad shoulders.
Defined chest. A dark trail of hair narrowing below his navel.
And the red viper tattoo winding from his left shoulder across his chest and down his arms, the scales vivid and detailed, shifting with the movement of his muscles.
I track the serpent's body with my eyes, following it down his right arm to where the tail curls at his wrist.
Years of watching this man in tailored suits at dinner tables and fundraisers and not once did I imagine what was underneath the three-piece armor.
Shame on me for underestimating what a man who fights on heavy bags and runs a criminal empire looks like without his shirt on.
I will never recover from this visual. Not ever.
"You can touch it." He catches me staring. "You can touch anything you want."
I press my palm flat against his chest. His skin is hot.
Almost fevered. The beat of his heart pushes against my hand, strong and steady, and the contrast between his calm pulse and my jackrabbit heartbeat is ridiculous.
I slide my hand over the tattoo, tracing the viper's body, feeling the ridges of muscle beneath ink and warm skin.
He exhales through his nose and his stomach contracts under my trailing fingers.
I reach down and fumble with the ankle straps of my heels.
My fingers are clumsy, shaking too hard to work the tiny buckles, and he watches me struggle for two seconds before dropping to one knee in front of me.
His warm hands close around my ankle and he unfastens the first strap with steady fingers, slides the heel off my foot and sets it on the floor beside the bed.
He does the same with the other, his thumb grazing the arch of my foot, and the tenderness of the gesture clenches tight around my heart.
He presses a kiss to the inside of my ankle before he stands.
The prince on his knees for the girl who showed up in red heels instead of glass slippers. Cinderella in reverse. I could cry if I wasn't busy trying to remember how to breathe.
He guides me back onto the bed. I settle against dark sheets that carry his scent, and the warmth of the fabric against my bare back makes my body melt into the mattress.
He follows me down, bracing himself on one arm, the heat of his body hovering above me without pressing down.
His free hand traces a path from my collarbone to my hip, fingertips dragging over my skin slowly enough that every ridge of his touch registers against my senses.