Close enough that my thoughts began to scatter.
“I have deliberately kept us in separate rooms since the day we married,” he said quietly, eyes locked on mine with unnerving intensity. “Not because I don’t want you. But because I do.”
The confession landed heavier than I expected.
My breath caught slightly.
His grip at my back tightened just a fraction.
“Because I knew what would happen the moment you were in my bed,” he continued, voice roughening further. “The restraint I’ve maintained would not survive it. And I do not trust myself around you, Loretta.”
His thumb moved once against my waist—slow, almost absent-minded, but enough to send heat crawling through me.
“Not when every inch of you calls to me like this.”
For a moment, I couldn’t find a reply. Couldn’t even decide if I wanted one.
Then, because silence suddenly felt too dangerous, a faint, defiant smirk tugged at my lips.
“Perhaps I should just go back to my own room then,” I said lightly.
I made a small attempt to twist away.
Half-hearted at best.
Testing him.
The reaction was immediate.
His hand tightened at my waist—not painful, but firm enough to stop me completely.
In one controlled motion, he pulled me fully back into him until I was pressed so close I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing against my chest.
My breath hitched.
Rafael’s eyes darkened slightly.
And then, without warning, he lifted me.
A bridal carry.
I blinked in surprise, instinctively bracing myself—but he was already moving, walking down the corridor with steady confidence as if I weighed nothing at all.
“You really don’t like giving me warnings, do you?” I muttered, trying to sound annoyed.
It came out thinner than I intended.
“No,” he said simply.
That one word did something unsettling to my nerves.
He carried me into his bedroom.
The space was large, elegant, and dimly lit—luxury softened by shadows and quiet.
Everything about it felt controlled, intentional, like him.
He walked straight to the bed.
