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I sit up slowly, pulling myself out of the comforting circle of his arm. “You should go,” I say softly, not looking at him. “You can’t stay the night.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I understand,” he says finally. He gets up, reaching for his clothes, and I get a glimpse of his lean, naked body as he straightens. Olive skin, those black tattoos winding a path down his torso, that sharp cut of muscle leading down to his now-softened cock. I have the urge to drop to my knees and coax it back to life, to feel him inside of me again, and the soft growl that I hear deep in Lorenzo’s throat tells me that he sees the thought on my face.
“I should go,” he murmurs. “Or I’ll end up inside of you again, dolce.”
Would that be so bad? The ache spreads through me, and it takes everything in me not to reach for his hand and tug him back to bed. I want him again, already, and the force of it makes my eyes water and my chest clench, a feeling of danger rising up that warns me this has gone too far already.
I’m in far deeper with him than I should be. We can’t take this back—but we shouldn’t do it again.
I wonder if that resolve will hold, the next time he kisses me. Because looking at the expression on his face—I can’t help but think that it’s not a question of if he slips and kisses me again. It’s when.
Lorenzo pulls his clothes on, that unreadable expression on his face again. He looks at me, pressing his lips together, and then he nods to the door. “Do you want me to just quietly let myself out?”
I wrap my arms over my chest, nodding. A moment ago, we had felt closer than I’ve ever felt to anyone. Now I can feel the gulf between us widening again, moving us apart so that I’m acutely aware of all the differences, of all the reasons why we shouldn’t be.
He gives a slow nod, and then turns to go. I want him to look back at me, to see some emotion there, but it’s as if he’s shuttered it all, closing himself off once more.
He slips out of the door, closing it behind him. A moment later, I hear the soft sound of the front door closing, too, and the only thing that propels me up to get my robe is the need to go out and lock it.
I need a shower. I need sleep. And I don’t know how much of the latter I’ll be getting tonight.
Lorenzo
Normally, when I’m finished with someone in my bed, I’m out like a light afterward. But when I get back to my apartment after leaving Mila’s, I lie awake for a long time despite the satisfied relaxation suffusing every inch of my body.
I didn’t shower when I got back—I wanted to keep the warm, sweet scent of her on my skin for a little while longer. I can still feel the echo of her skin against mine, the feeling of her lips against my mouth, my ear, the warm clutch of her body around me. I want it again, desperately.
I’d needed that. It had been too long since I’ve been with someone—but this was more than that, and I know it, no matter how I try to tell myself otherwise. What I felt with Mila was different.
Something I’ve never experienced before. Something that’s dangerous for us both.
Everything about tonight was a bad idea. I knew it from the moment I got her text. I knew I should never have gone to her apartment, never given myself a chance to see that side of her life, what she’s doing all of this for. I should never have put myself in a position to let my walls down around her.
Now, it’s so much harder to put that distance between us again. Now that I know the softness of her skin, the sounds she makes when I slide into her, how hot and tight and exquisitely wet she is—I feel my cock twitch just thinking about it, threatening to swell and harden again at the memory.
If she were here, in my bed, we’d spend the rest of the night like that. I’d make her come again and again for me, find out how many times I could get hard for her, fuck her until we’re both sore and exhausted in the morning.
The ache spreads through me, and I close my eyes, trying to block it out. Sex has never been a priority for me, romance even less so. I’ve sought out pleasure when I felt like I needed it, a function to take care of, like hunger or thirst. But I’ve never hungered for anyone the way I did for Mila tonight. I’ve never said anything like what slipped out of my mouth, things I said without meaning to, without thinking. It was impossible to take them back afterward, not least of which because I meant them. It would have been a lie to try to make her think otherwise.
But now it’s all there, out in the open between us. The way she makes me feel, the way she makes me need. And it doesn’t change the fact that it shouldn’t happen again.
My hands curl into fists, thinking of what drove me to her apartment in the first place tonight. That fucking, meddling piece of shit cop. I grit my teeth, fighting back the urge to track him down myself and teach him a lesson about looking into business that doesn’t concern him. In the morning, I reason as I look up at the ceiling again, I’ll go and have another chat with Dawson. A more insistent one this time, one that makes sure Adams will leave Mila alone.
I close my eyes again, trying to sink into sleep. My cock throbs uncomfortably, and I wince, doing my best to ignore it. On any other night, I would reach down and stroke myself to a quick climax—but tonight, I know it’s pointless. It won’t compare to how it felt to be in bed with Mila, and anything less will only make me want her more.
That, too, is a problem to figure out sooner rather than later. I have no intention of spending the rest of my life celibate, brooding over a woman I can’t have—and Mila and I have no future. The idea of it is as ridiculous as Dante falling for his tattoo artist.
But they’re happy now, aren’t they? The question echoes in my head as I finally fall asleep, all of my dreams filled with Mila.
—
In the morning, the ache for her hasn’t receded, and neither has my anger over Adams following her. I get dressed, still ignoring the steady throb of lust that seems to have taken up a permanent residence in my groin, and try not to think about how when I woke up this morning, my first thought was to wish that she were in bed next to me. I’d rolled over, my hand grazing the smooth sheets on the other side of the bed, and felt a wave of disappointment that I touched fabric instead of soft flesh.
I’ve never woken up to anyone. I’ve never wanted to. Even when I’ve enjoyed fucking someone late into the night, I’ve always sent them home afterward. I’ve always been careful to keep sex as just that—physical pleasure, and nothing more. Anything else blurs lines that I’ve never been interested in softening.
Until Mila. Suddenly, I can’t seem to help but blur those lines. Overstep them.
Erase them entirely.
