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Just as I lowered my head, lips almost touching that mouth that had fallen open with her breathing, she whimpered like a kitten, and her fuzzy head flopped against my chest.

"What?" I ground to a halt, voice rough as gravel.

"Mr. Moretti... I'm so thirsty..." She frowned, clutching my shirt without thinking, mumbling incoherently, "My throat's burning... I need water..."

I closed my eyes. My jaw clenched so hard it hurt. A vein throbbed at my temple.

Fucking Christ.

I'd never backed down with a knife at my throat or a gun to my head, and now—blood boiling like it would explode, hard enough to hurt—I was being stopped cold by this drunk girl's whimpered "I'm thirsty."

Throwing her on the marble and taking her would be nothing. She'd gotten in my car, begged me to take her away. Before dawn, she was my prey.

But when I looked down and saw that small hand clutching my shirt, knuckles bone-white from the effort, her burning face buried against my chest, whimpering helplessly like a creature dying of thirst in the desert—the savage cruelty in my blood got strangled by something more unfamiliar. Irritation. Surrender.

Fuck. I'd lost my mind.

"Let go. I'll get you water." I took a deep breath, tried to pry her fingers off my clothes.

"No... don't go..." Not only did she not release me, but she burrowed deeper like a koala, her fuzzy head rubbing my jaw as she mumbled, "Mr. Moretti... water... I feel awful..."

Her soft body pressed against my chest with zero defenses, every rise and fall of those lush curves striking matches on the fuse of my self-control.

I grabbed the back of her neck, forced her to lift that flushed little face.

I stared down at her, chest heaving.

Fuck.

She was too drunk to think straight. She probably couldn't say her own name, let alone negotiate conditions.

My back teeth ground together, jaw so tight it could snap, but it finally loosened with a rough exhale from deep in my chest. Something ridiculous—frustration, defeat, permission I despised myself for giving—tore through my nerves.

"Goddamn it."

I bit out the curse, forced down the desire, and bent to scoop her up.

She was softer than she looked, her full weight strangely solid in my arms.

I didn't turn on the main lights, just left the warm glow from the entrance and living room corners. I laid her carefully on the wide white sofa, slipped off my suit jacket, and draped it gently over her.

"Stay put for a minute, piccola." My voice came out low.

She shifted restlessly, the jacket sliding halfway off to expose the shoulder with that fire-red lace strap soaked in tears and sweat, and eyes swollen like little walnuts.

Looking at the tear tracks on her face, fierce protectiveness surged up mixed with unnamed hunger. I turned away fast, headed for the open kitchen. I needed a few minutes to cool off completely, or I couldn't guarantee what would happen next.

The marble island felt ice-cold, took some edge off my boiling blood. I pulled a fresh lemon from the fridge, cut it open, stirred two spoons of honey into warm water. The spoon clinked against glass. I stared at the swirling current, internally mocking how pathetic I looked.

When did I turn into some lovesick kid, spending late night in the kitchen making hangover remedies for a girl I'd met twice, instead of enjoying a good night with a lover?

What, play the gentleman all the way? Take care of her till morning, then send her home safe in my car?

No. That wasn't my style at all.

When I came back with the honey water, she seemed more awake.

The girl was half-sitting on the sofa, eyes still clouded with confusion and drunk misery. Seeing me approach, she seemed to remember what happened in the garden. Her peach-colored cheeks turned bright red, and she shrank back into the corner.