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“It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have…”
He inclines his head, studying me like a riddle to solve. “Why did you?”
This. This is why I was relieved Nick and I haven’t been alone since the moment in his bathroom. Because I was worried he’d ask this question, which I have no good answer to. Part of it was lust. Part of it was boredom. Part of it was bravery, tossing inhibitions away like confetti. And part of it was an admission—that I’m still attracted to him despite knowing the full, ugly truth.
Nick looks down at his documents when I don’t answer. “It’s late. Leo will be up early.”
I stand in response to the not-so-subtle dismissal that is also him letting me off the hook, but I don’t walk toward the door. I round the desk instead, not stopping until my legs brush against the stiff fabric of his pants.
Nick doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t push me away. He sits and stares, eyes unreadable and expression serious.
This is stupid. I’m not drunk or naive or unaware of the consequences. Sex with an ex—sex with your child’s father—is rife with messy complications. Add in the fact that I’m here because leaving means risking my life, and I’m looking at a recipe for disaster.
Nick is aMafia boss. He kills people. Tortures traitors. Sells guns, like the one that killed June’s husband. Sells drugs, like the ones that killed my mom.
Rationally, I know all of that.
Compare Nick to any other guy I’ve dated, and the contrast is laughable. He’s the total opposite of the safe, steady, reliable guy I swore to myself I’d end up with. Someone who sticks around and shows up.
Nothing like my father or the other men my mother kept company with.
The problem is, I can’t seem to care about anything Ishoulddo orshouldwant right now.
It’s been nine years since I felt this magnetic pull. This reckless excitement. This wild abandonment.
I hold eye contact with him as I take a seat on the edge of the massive desk. Right on top of the papers that must be related to his criminal empire.
Nick still doesn’t move.
I spread my legs a little, embarrassed by how wet my underwear is.
My sex life since him has been nice. Enjoyable. And…forgettable.
I told myself passion has a less prominent place in mature, responsible relationships. Maybe there’s some truth to that.
But Nick hasn’t touched me, hasn’t evensuggestedhe’s going to touch me, and thrills of anticipation dance across my skin. It feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, staring at the dark water below, letting the nerves build until you gather the courage to leave solid ground. The last time I swam with Nick, I nearly drowned.
In one smooth motion, he stands.
The leather chair squeaks as it rolls away, shoved back by his body as he presses against me instead.
Adrenaline floods my system, sharpening my senses. My breathing is ragged. Harsh inhales and hurried exhales.
“Am I allowed to touch you this time?” There’s a dry, dangerous edge to his voice, sharpened with a hint of irritation that tells me he wasn’t as unbothered by last night as he’s acted until now. That there’s been a lot lingering under the surface on his side, not just mine.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”
His callous palm lands on my thigh. A possessive, heavy weight. All I can focus on is that one spot. On theheathis touch incites and how it spreads. Like a lighter sparking to life and starting a fire.
“Won’t your boyfriend mind?”
There’s a rough, seductive edge to Nick’s voice that makes me think he knows the answer. His men eavesdropped on my conversation with Michael, I’m sure.
“Adultery isn’t on your long list of sins?”
One corner of Nick’s mouth quirks.
I exhale and admit, “I ended it with Michael when I called him.”
