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Because I couldn’t keep my eyes off of his oldest nephew.
Elio looked a bit rumpled, his clothes wrinkled, shadowy stubble darkening the parts of his jaw that aren’t scarred, his hair askew in a way that made my fingers tighten around my teacup with the urge to smooth the rebellious waves.
And yet…
Fuck, I’m an idiot. But I couldn’t stop staring at him.
I should have just gone upstairs immediately. Gotten some space to clear my head. But the conversation had been about… Well, me. And I found myself rooted to the spot.
Vincenzo called me a whore.
And Elio’s eyes got so fucking dark I was half-afraid he’d kill his own uncle right in front of me.
No one insults my fiancée, he said. No one.
And then, the thing that really stole my breath, was when he told Vincenzo he would step aside, relinquish his power within this family, the role he would inherit…
All for me.
Just to marry me.
I hate how much his words affected me. He’s always so confident, so certain, so sure. It doesn’t matter who he has to confront or convince, whether it’s Brian or his own uncle, he never hesitates to stand up for me. To make his connection to me known.
And when he does stuff like that, it makes my belly go tight with twisted pleasure.
I don’t even want to marry him. But hearing him say that, that he’d give up everything important in his world, just to have me…
Well, it’s making it hard to be as pissed at him as I want to be.
But I’m not that weak. I have to have some kind of resolve here. He still announced our fucking engagement – an engagement I haven’t even agreed to! – without even bothering to ask me. Or his uncle, it seems, based on the conversation I overheard down there. I didn’t stay until the end. I had to get some space from Elio. And space from all the feelings inside me that, like dynamite he calmly held matches against, were threatening to explode.
I need to focus on something else. So I open my laptop. The one he gave me. I grimace as I type in the password he set up for me – Iloveelio – and then open up some school files. I have no idea if it’s even safe for me to go to class tomorrow after what happened last night, but I might as well be prepared.
Not that I get much work done. I’ve only just gotten into my reading for the week when I hear footsteps on the stairs. When the hallway door leading into Elio’s room opens, I know there’s no one else it could be but him.
I stiffen at my desk, frozen and staring blindly at the screen of my laptop. My throat goes incredibly dry, my chest tightening with nerves and anger and desire and I don’t even know what else. I don’t hear much movement and I relax slightly, thinking he’s still in his own room. But then a low, silken murmur of, “Morning, Songbird,” directly behind me makes me leap out of my chair, heart pumping.
I whirl around to find Elio standing right behind my chair. It’s not the first time I’ve thought it, but damn, somebody that big should not be that quiet.
I clear my throat, then lick my lips. Elio’s hooded gaze goes to my mouth.
“It’s not morning,” I say, because I can’t think of anything sensible to actually reply with.
“I know,” Elio says. He grasps the back of the chair with one hand and lifts it easily aside so that there’s nothing between us. “But I didn’t get to say it earlier. So, good morning.”
Before I can react, before I can even think to move away, he’s stepped forward, closing the distance between us. The smooth glide of his leather touch at my jaw as he cups my face makes me shiver. I shiver even harder when his lips press softly, even tenderly, against my forehead.
“And good afternoon,” he breathes against my skin. Then he lowers his mouth to mine.
The kiss is so gentle, so nearly chaste, whisper-light against my lips, that I’m shocked into stillness. I don’t think he’s ever kissed me quite like this. Usually, it’s all tongue and taking. Ravishing. Ravaging.
This is like the mist of rain on my skin.
And yet, despite how incredibly soft the pressure against my mouth is, my body reacts like he’s kissing my clit instead of my lips. My pulse stutters, my insides going liquid. My knees literally go weak, and if that isn’t the definition of pathetic I don’t even know what is.
That realization – that I’m literally becoming a weak-kneed damsel in his arms, that he’s disarmed me with a single fucking kiss – gives me the strength to pull out of his quietly obliterating embrace.
“We need to talk,” I stammer, breathing much harder than I should be.
