Page 145 of The Art of Ruin

Casey’s hair is spread across my pillows, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and parted as she looks up at me with an expression so open and wrecked it nearly strips the breath from my lungs.

Beautiful.

Completely fucking beautiful.

I slide into bed and my hand slides along her thigh slowly before hooking behind it, guiding her closer to me instinctively. She cuddles in close as I pull the covers over us.

“Still okay?” I ask quietly, brushing my thumb along her jaw.

She nods immediately, her fingers curling against the back of my neck. “More than okay.”

Relief and hunger hit me so hard together they become almost indistinguishable.

I kiss her slowly this time, deeply enough to make her melt beneath me again before my forehead rests briefly against hers. “You have any idea how hard it’s been not touching you like this?” I murmur.

Her breath catches softly. “Good,” she whispers. “Because you were making me miserable too.”

That low possessive satisfaction hits me straight in the chest.

Mine.

The thought comes sharper this time.

More dangerous.

And judging by the way Casey arches into me when my hand tightens at her waist, she feels it too.

I gather her against my chest instinctively, one arm wrapped tightly around her waist while I press a slow kiss against the top of her head.

She fits there so naturally it almost unsettles me.

Like this was always where she was supposed to be.

Casey lets out a soft, tired laugh a few minutes later, fingertips moving lazily over my chest. “You know,” she murmurs sleepily, “you’re a lot more of a softie than you pretend to be.”

I look down at her. “That’s not what a man who just made you come three times wants to hear.”

“Not that kind of softie, you idiot. In here.” She taps my chest over my heart.

“And here I was trying so hard to seem intimidating.”

Her smile curves slowly against my skin. “You are intimidating.”

“Hmm.”

“You’re also apparently the kind of man who checks three times to make sure I’m comfortable before ravaging me.”

I brush my fingers slowly through her hair. “Those things are not mutually exclusive.”

“No,” she says quietly, tilting her head just enough to look up at me properly. “I’m starting to realize that.”

22.Casey

A week later,I’m starting to understand that Adriano Mancini is apparently incapable of doing anything halfway. Not work, not family, and definitely not whatever this is between us now. I had worried that sleeping with him would make things awkward when he inevitably said it was a mistake and got cold and distant. He’s surprised me in the best way by doing none of those things.

We’ve slipped quietly into the spaces of everyday life with an ease I didn’t realize was possible. Those small moments that make a transition from what we were to what we are now. A hand at the small of my back as he passes me in the kitchen. His coffee appearing beside mine in the mornings without either of us asking how the other takes it anymore. The way he reaches for me instinctively whenever we’re alone, like touching me has already become habit rather than choice.

Every night that week ends the same way, too—us tangled together. Sometimes in his bed. Sometimes in mine when he slips into the annex long after Letty has gone to sleep, still smelling faintly of cedar and expensive whiskey and winter air,his tie loosened and his expression softening the second he sees me waiting for him.