Page 13 of Out of Control

I’m aware of every long, hard inch of him against me. Of the way he starts moving to the beat. How his eyes never leave mine. Of the hiss of his breath when I begin to rock my hips from side to side.

We move together throughout the song. Him leading and me following. My hands locked behind me so that my world narrows to just him.

It’s a heady feeling to be in a crowd of people and feel like it’s just the two of us.

Rossi leans in, the warmth of his breath feathering over my lips, and I prepare myself for what I’ve been telling myself I don’t want but so damn do—his kiss. My nipples harden and chills chase over my body despite the warm night air.

I wait for it, eyes closed and anticipation like a drug.

“Don’t look now, Sofia, but you do in fact want me.”

My eyes flutter open as disbelief laced with that crazy mix of emotions courses through me.

But he’s still there, lips so damn close, curving up in a taunting smile.

Head games.

He’s playing them. My own head is too. And now it’s time to take control back. I came here to lose myself. To feel good. To relish in the moment.

I lean in and see the widening of his eyes as he thinks I’m going to kiss him. I don’t. I put my lips to his ear and whisper, “In your fucking dreams, Rossi.”

And then I turn on my heel and out of his grasp, losing myself in the crowd.

But not before I hear his laugh.

Not before I see the shock register in it too.

CHAPTER FOUR

Rossi

I think about her.

More than I fucking should, I think about her. The way her body felt against mine. The way her lips parted when she threw her head back. The scent of the festival on her skin. The seduction in her voice when she virtually told me to fuck off.

She’s a contradiction in every sense of the word, and it’s intoxicating in a way I’ve never experienced before.

Forty-something hours since I first saw her, first realized I wanted her, and I can’t stop thinking about her.

And I fucking love that I do.

No doubt that has something to do with why I’ve followed her around like a lost fucking puppy dog—or a stalker. Both can be true.

Christ, Rossi. She’s your fucking teammate’s sister. Off limits.

I’ve made no attempt to hide that I’m following her. Even after her colorful send-off last night, I still walked at a distance behind her to make sure she got back to her rental okay.

It’s like I can’t stay away. I don’t think I want to.

And the same goes for tonight. It wasn’t hard to find where she was. She likes the DJ sets with their bombastic beats more than the live musicians. She likes to buy water from the stand in the VIP tent that’s to the far right because she chats with the lady running the booth about her children. And she likes to rest with her friend on the top of the grassy hill to the left of the booth between sets or just to meet up and talk a million miles a minute in that high-pitched tone that women do when they get together.

Every time I lose her, that’s how I find her.

You are so fucked in the head. Forty-ish hours and you’ve watched the damn woman enough to know where to find her in this massive sea of people.

Not another one. I grit my teeth and roll my shoulders as yet another man approaches her.

I watch them chat as my hand tightens on my beer bottle. She laughs and puts her hand on his arm.