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She waited.
His eyes never moved away even as she felt his movement in the room, the air snapping around him, changing around her. Was he stepping closer? Or farther? Would she feel his breath on her skin, or feel the empty caress of the air?
She waited, her nerves stretched so taut she was afraid she would snap.
The sudden vibration of her phone on her thigh made her jump, her heart thumping against her ribs. Aware of his eyes on her, Morana picked up her phone with slightly unsteady hands and unlocked the screen, blinking at the message.
Tristan Caine: Meet me in the parking lot in 5 minutes.
Morana could’ve spoken. She could’ve talked and asked him why. But she didn’t want to break this silence, this moment where she was sitting in the dark alone being watched by him from the darker shadows.
Me: Planning to make me go somewhere, Mr. Caine?
Tristan Caine: On the contrary, I’m planning to make you come somewhere, Ms. Vitalio. 5 minutes.
Her breath caught as she read the message, the dinging of the elevator loud in the quiet of the penthouse, telling her he’d left her alone and stepped back. Knowing he was gone, Morana put a hand to her racing heart, feeling its hard thump under her fingers, her breasts heavy and heaving as she inhaled and exhaled, regularizing her breaths.
Was she really going to do this again? Let him do this again? That time in the restaurant had been to get them out of their systems. It had failed spectacularly. Would this time get him out? And just in case it didn’t, would she let him fuck her again? At what cost? She wasn’t foolish enough to delude herself into thinking it won’t deepen whatever connection they already had. Could she risk it? Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe they’d get themselves out of their systems, and Morana would develop the counter codes and leave everything peacefully with closure.
Another incoming text interrupted her thoughts.
Tristan Caine: If you’re scared…
He was baiting her. Why?
Me: Of what?
Tristan Caine: Come and see for yourself.
What, was he parading around naked in the lot with whipped cream smeared over his man parts?
Me: You use ‘come’ a lot, you know that?
Tristan Caine: Women are usually grateful in all sorts of ways.
Morana scoffed, trying not to let the image of him tangled with some gorgeous woman, multiple women, get to her. It didn’t bother her. Not. At. All.
Standing up and straightening her clothes, she slipped her feet into her flats and headed for the elevator, typing all the while.
Me: You actually let them speak during sex? Outside of a restroom? How classy.
The elevator doors slid open and she got inside, looking back at herself in the mirror, at her tousled hair and the tank top that tended to slip her shoulders. The jeans Amara had loaned her was slightly loose on her, the hem folded back to accommodate her shorter height. She looked like a little hipster who’d burst into a song and dance at the drop of a hat, like in a music video.
Scoffing, she pushed her phone inside her pocket, straightening the strap of her top, and walked out when the doors opened. Dante and Tristan Caine stood together, talking in quiet tones beside his bike. It was her first proper glimpse of him since the afternoon, and she was surprised to find him wearing not the suit he’d been wearing during the day, but well-worn jeans that hugged his ass in ways she could envy, and that black leather jacket of his. She was surprised because it meant he’d been in the apartment longer than she’d realized. It meant he’d let her sleep without disturbing her, and she didn’t know what to make of that.
Dante looked at her, gave her a small nod and headed to his car, dialing someone on his phone.
And then, Tristan Caine took one handle of that beast of a bike, swung one leg over it, the muscles of his thighs flexing under that jeans in a way that made her insides roar with feminine appreciation. He settled his ass back on the seat, picking up a helmet from behind him and finally looking at her with those piercing blue eyes. It was only then that she noticed a second helmet on the seat. A smaller, more feminine helmet.
Fuck.
He was taking her out on his bike? His bike? The sacred, holy bike? The bike he actually enjoyed riding?
“If you’re done gaping, Ms. Vitalio, we’re on a clock,” his rough, low voice rasped over her, breaking her out of her stupor, his eyes locked on her.
Morana gulped and walked forward, apprehension curling in her stomach along with excitement, eyeing the beautiful black and red chrome monster, the seat higher than her waist. How in the world was she going to climb onto it?
She picked up the smaller helmet, aware of his gaze on her. It wasn’t new and it was clearly feminine. Who did it belong to? Or was it like the common helmet for any and all females climbing the back? For some reason, the idea did not sit well with her.
