I shudder at that, every nerve lit with wanting.
But underneath it—beneath the heat, beneath the desperate ache of missing him, beneath the dizzy recklessness of being here like this—fear still beats like a second pulse.
Because if he gives me what I’m asking for, he might notice.
And if he notices, everything changes.
Yet when his hand tightens and his mouth brushes the shell of my ear, I hear myself make the softest sound of surrender. Because the worst part—the most shameful part—is that even with everything on the line, I still want him more.
His zipper slides down and then he gives me what I want, entering me in a single thrust. My body answers before my pride can as tremor runs through me, visible even in the mirror, and his eyes catch it. Hold it. Devour it.
“There,” he says softly, almost like he’s reassuring a frightened animal. “That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
I can’t speak. I’m too full of him already.
I force out, “Don’t stop. Please.”
Something fierce flashes through his expression then, something that looks almost like pain before it settles into hunger again.
“You’re dangerous when you beg,” he murmurs.
And then he gives me what I need. What we both need. It’s not pretty or sweet. No, it’s animalistic and raw. When I moan, he covers my mouth with his palm to silence the sounds. And when I shatter, he’s right behind me, leaving us both breathless.
But then reality sets in and I realize just what I’ve done.
I pull away from him, hating the wetness that runs down my thighs.
“Get out.”
He doesn’t listen. Instead, he slides his cock back into his pants and fixes his clothes like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“We’re getting the dress,” he says. “And I’ll see if they have it in any other colors.”
My face burns. “Seriously. Get out.”
He opens the door, then glances back once over his shoulder. “I’ll have them show you to the bathroom so you can clean up. After that, you have an hour. If you don’t have at least seven outfits, I’ll pick what I want you to wear.”
Then he leaves me there alone with my reflection, my racing heart, and the awful, undeniable truth that the heat between us is becoming its own kind of addiction.
14
Birdie
I manage to find ten outfits within the hour, which feels like a miracle considering I spend most of that time trying not to think about what happened in that fitting room.
As I step out, I hand the sundresses back to the saleswoman. “I don’t want any of these.”
Her brows lift. “But Mr. Conti has already paid for them.”
Of course he has.
A hot, vicious pulse of anger moves through me. Fine. Then I’ll set every last one of them on fire. Because that dress is a trap. A soft, pretty little gateway to disaster. To weakness. To his hands on me and my body forgetting every lesson pain ever taught it.
Never again.
My temper climbs another notch when I spot Lorenzo at the counter, leaning there like he owns the place, speaking in that low, effortless voice of his to a beautiful woman who looks entirely too pleased to be on the receiving end of it. She’s practicallydraped over the conversation, smiling up at him like he invented oxygen.
Something ugly and furious twists in my chest.
