Page 27 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

Or he’d kissed her.

Holy cannoli, the man could kiss. Not just with his lips, although they weren’t too shabby all by themselves. He was a full-body kisser, his hands everywhere at once, his touch soft but sure, demanding yet desperate. Her mind had turned to mush and her body—she blushed remembering the way she’d opened up for him like a twenty-four-hour convenience store, her nipples tightening into points and her panties wet with her arousal.

She tried to tell herself it was overactive hormones, made worse by a longer than usual sexual drought. The last few months with Brad, they’d been more friends than lovers. She’d have reacted the same way if old Mr. Lombard who ran the deli across the street from her office—or what used to be her office—kissed her.

But not all that deep down, she knew she was lying. Yes, it had been a while since she’d gotten hot and heavy with anyone. But this thing between her and Dante was more than physical. She was starting to get glimpses of the man behind the gruff exterior. And she liked what she saw. How could you not develop a soft spot for a guy who made killer cappuccino, baked biscotti on par with a professional pastry chef, and shelled out almost a thousand dollars to rescue a helpless animal?

Too bad he didn’t feel the same way about her.

With a long, heavy sigh, Zoe sat up and flung her legs over the side of the bed. Sleep was a pipe dream. She might as well make the most of her insomnia and enjoy—or try to enjoy—a good book out on her balcony, with the stars overhead, and the gentle roll of the surf below.

After a quick check on Houdini, softly snoring in the heap of blankets she’d piled in the corner to serve as his bed until the fancy crate Dante had ordered online showed up, she grabbed her e-reader and stepped through the sliding glass doors into the still-warm night air. She settled herself into a wicker chair, her feet curled beneath her and her head resting against the cushion. She’d barely opened the latest Jack Reacher novel and begun to read when a low, indistinct, vaguely human sound stopped her mid-sentence.

Was that a—moan?

She cocked her head, listening. Yep. There it was again. She wasn’t imagining things. An almost primal, guttural groan that sounded like it was coming from the room next door.

Dante’s room.

She set her e-reader down on the ottoman and tiptoed to the edge of the balcony. Putting curiosity before caution, she leaned over the railing and peered around the wall into the adjoining balcony.

Empty.

But the sliding glass door was open a crack, enough for her to hear another moan from the darkened bedroom, this one louder, more frantic, followed by a muffled thump and a muttered Italian curse word even she recognized.

Her heart skipped a beat or two or ten, and the hair on her arms and the back of her neck lifted. Was he hurt? In pain? Or—?

“Fuck, yes. Almost there.”

Oh. My. God.

He was killing her. Abso-fucking-lutely killing her. She could picture him, cock in hand, stroking himself from the thick base to the gleaming tip. Dragging his thumb through the wetness and using it to make himself slicker, hotter.

Were his eyes open or closed as he pleasured himself? Was he lying in bed, his big body sprawled across the mattress, sheets twisted around his ankles, or braced against the wall, his muscular thighs straining with the effort of keeping him upright? Did he like it slow and controlled, drawing out the sweet torture, or hard, hot, and fast?

A huge part of her wanted answers to those questions more than her next breath. But another part felt the crushing guilt of eavesdropping on something so personal, so intimate. Okay, so he shared some of that guilt for leaving his damn door open. But that didn’t excuse her snooping.

She stepped back into the shadows, preparing to retreat to the relative safety of her bedroom and her Beats headphones, turned up to full volume.

He moaned again. “God, yes, Zoe.”

The last word slammed into her like a high-speed train. The way he’d shut down after their kiss, she thought she repulsed him or something. But now she didn’t know what to think. The man was a maddening mess of contradictions.

Her legs threatened to give out, and she collapsed onto the chair, needing something to support her. Overhearing him masturbate in the next room had been hot as hell. Knowing he was thinking about her while he was doing it—

That was hot times one hundred. Incendiary.

Almost unbidden, she lay back, propping one foot up on the ottoman and parting her legs so she could slip a hand under her sleep shorts. Now that she knew what she was listening for, she could hear the muted sounds of his tugs as he jerked himself, spurring her hand lower, between her thighs, until her fingers brushed the neat patch of curls she kept meticulously trimmed above her otherwise bare pussy.

Her body twitched, and she swallowed a sigh. She was so primed, so turned on, even that light touch was almost enough to set her off.

A brief moment of sanity returned, stilling her fingers. Was she really doing this? On a darkened balcony only a few feet from the man she had to share space with for three more long, torturous weeks?

Come on, Zoe. Live a little. Enjoy this amazing, exclusive, once-in-a-lifetime offer. Just be quiet, and he’ll never have to know.

Next door, she could hear Dante, his moans coming faster now, more urgent. Her already heightened arousal kicked up several notches, and her hand moved lower still, one finger daring to glance across her slick button.

Oh yeah. She was doing this.