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“Xavi—oomph—STOP!”
It was halfway between a shriek and a moan, but his lips paused, teeth poised over my collarbone. He leaned back to examine me as if I were a wild animal he’d caught in a trap. Like he knew if he made a wrong move, I’d chew my own leg off trying to escape.
“What is it?” he purred. “Tell me. I’ll fix it.”
Behind him, the elevator door opened. I seized my chance, wriggling out of his arms and hurtling toward the carriage.
“Francesca, wait—fucking hell—where are you going?”
I pressed the button for the lobby, not caring about the wrinkles in my dress, the state of my hair, streaked makeup, or my undoubtedly swollen lips.
“I’m sorry,” I said as the doors began to close. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”
“Ces—stop—just—”
He was clearly flustered trying simultaneously to put his clothes back into order, calm the obvious evidence of his arousal, and somehow stop the elevator doors from closing too.
He failed.
I should have been relieved. I know I should have.
But when the doors had finally shut on his shocked, disoriented face, the pit that had opened in my stomach earlier that evening widened even more. I pressed my face into my hands and, for no reason I could fathom, began to cry.
