I can see the glistening wetness of her desire. She wants me.
And it's going to be my downfall.
I am so, so hard it hurts.
The towel is now a joke. A flimsy piece of cotton that is doing absolutely nothing to hide my obvious arousal.
My gaze snaps back to hers.
Her eyes are dark, her lips parted.
She is watching me. Watching my reaction.
She is not shy. She is not hesitant. She is completely confident.
Her eyes are dark, almost black in the dim light. They are watching me, hungry and knowing.
I am in so much trouble.
“Caterina,” I say again. This is a last prayer. A final desperate act.
She takes the final step that closes the space between us.
Her bare skin brushes against mine.
The contact is electric.
A shudder runs through me.
My hands, which have been clenched at my sides, ache to touch her.
It’s a physical pain, a deep, throbbing need that is completely separate from the gunshot wound.
Her hands go to my shoulders.
Her touch is light, almost feathery, but it brands me.
Her gaze is still locked on mine.
“You should leave,” I say again, but the words have no conviction. They are a hollow, breathy sound.
Her hands slide from my shoulders down my arms.
Her thumbs brush against my biceps.
I shudder again.
My control is fraying.
She knows it.
She leans in.
Her lips are a breath away from mine.
“If last night was only fear,” she says quietly, “then tell me to pick up the robe.”
I say nothing.
