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I would have stopped the kiss.
I did.
But he held me and reclaimed my mouth, and this time, urgency replaced the gentler exploration of moments ago. His kiss was hungry, ravenous almost, and his desire only seemed to wake the same inside me. I raised my hand and laid it against his arm, liking the feel of hard muscle there. Feeling somehow safe for it. My body eased, relaxing into him, and my eyelids fluttered closed.
But then he broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against mine.
His breath came heavy. His hands moved to my hips, holding me.
“I’m fucked up right now,” he said. “You need to go upstairs.”
I raised my head to look at his face, into his eyes. They told so much he didn’t say, and it felt strange that I’d only known this man for days. I should hate him. Fear him. And I did fear him, but there was something else, a pull too powerful to ignore.
As dominant as he could be, as much as he commanded me, Raphael’s vulnerability seemed to touch the edges of his hardness, to soften it, even if he tried to hide it, to bury it, and all I could think was that he was lost.
With trembling fingers, I touched his face.
One of his hands moved lower, then rose upward, sliding over my stomach, his skin burning through the thin cotton of the dress as he caressed belly then breast, and when his knuckle brushed against my hardened nipple, I felt it at my core, as if he touched me between my legs.
“I want you, Sofia. But I’m drunk, and I need you to go upstairs to your room and lock your door, understand?” His warm whiskey breath tickled my face.
“You won’t hurt me.” Was I so sure?
“I will. You don’t know me.”
“You keep telling me that.”
“Maybe you should start believing it.”
He cupped my breast over my dress, and I gasped, watching his hand move, fingers playing with my nipple, neither the dress nor the bra offering protection.
“You could have hurt me the other day, but you didn’t,” I said.
Eyes locked on mine, he tweaked my nipple, as if to prove his point. When I made a sound, he released it and stepped back to pull his T-shirt off with one hand.
“Touch me.”
I looked at him, swallowing, something inside my belly fluttering. We both watched as my hands shook, as my fingertips touched his skin damp with rain. I caressed him lightly, softly. I wondered if he’d laugh at me, at my inexperience, but he didn’t. He stood letting me touch him, letting me feel his heart beat beneath his skin. But when my exploration emboldened and my fingers trailed downward over ripped muscle to the trail of dark hair that disappeared inside his jeans, he grabbed my wrist roughly.
I gasped, my head snapping up.
“I told you to go upstairs to your room and lock your door. I’m drunk. I’ll hurt you.”
“You also told me to touch you.”
He squeezed my wrist.
“You were right the other day. I want it. I want you.” I swallowed, not sure what the hell I was doing, where this was going. “Kiss me again, Raphael.”
A fire burned behind his eyes. My lips parted, and I licked them. Raphael pushed me against the wall, his mouth crushing mine in a kiss so intense, so full of everything, it hurt, it seared. It was as if he were leaving his mark. Claiming me. He pressed the flat of one hand against my belly, the back of my head against the cold, painful jagged stone.
“If you weren’t a virgin, I’d fuck you here and now, against the wall.”
The words came out in a ragged, hoarse voice. He didn’t give me a chance to answer. To tell him to do it. Because some part of me, it liked this side of him. This damaged, dark, broken soul. It longed to touch him. To touch that fractured part of him. The one that left him open and lost and dangerous.
Instead, he smashed his mouth over mine again. I made a sound, not a protest, but also not a yielding. I knew he was drunk. I could taste it on his tongue. I liked it, I wanted it. I wanted him. But not like this. Not the first time.
Raphael drew back, his breathing hard. He gave me one hard glare then stepped away, turning his back to me. Even from behind him, I knew his gaze locked on that pillar.
“Your back, Raphael,” I said, stepping closer, touching the bumpy, uneven skin. Scar tissue.
He whirled around and grabbed my wrist so hard I stumbled.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.” He squeezed. “Not my back.”
“You’re hurting me now,” I squeaked after a moment.
It was as if it took him time to process my words, because it took him time to release me and step away. He dropped his gaze and ran a hand through his hair.
