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This is an oxygen-stealing kiss, and I can’t get enough. My skin tingles with desire, my heart pounds with lust, and my core clenches with need.
I pull him closer and Gio twists us both. My back hits the sheets and the bed groans under our combined weight. He leaves a trail of kisses and bites down my neck, hitting a sensitive spot under my ear.
My back buckles, my body responding with urgency, purely driven by my senses—the essence of him, his sounds, his touch, his masculine presence.
His erection presses into my thigh, and I grind myself shamelessly against him. Seeking friction, reveling in his touch, grasping at all the decadence he offers.
I find the hem of his T-shirt and scrape my nails up his back, his shoulder blades wonderfully solid in my palm. It finally registers that he’s only wearing underwear.
Oh, how I wish I could see him, but I erase the thought. I don’t want to be thinking, I want—I need—to feel only.
He stills and lowers his forehead to mine. The non-existent clock in the room ticks away with dread, all the excitement evaporating as I wonder what’s going on.
“Sorry, Princess, I can’t.”
Chapter12
Mila
Iopen my eyes and groan. The bright sun dances around the room. I must have fallen asleep after what was the most humiliating night in my life. And I dated Brian, so I’ve experienced my share of shame, as my therapist’s bills can attest.
Gio’s face when I asked him to leave—threw him out really—haunted me for most of the night. The remorse in his features. The memory alone pisses me off. He rejected me, and he looked like the wronged party. What the actual fuck?
I check my watch. Yeah, after just two hours of sleep, being pissed will probably become the theme of the day. Throwing the sheet over my face, I groan.
My mind immediately returns to last night and I decide I better get moving. Keeping myself busy is the best remedy for all the problems. If only I didn’t need to face myboss.
Argh! I shuffle to the bathroom, wash my face and try to fix my appearance in the best way possible, but given our suitcases are God knows where, there isn’t much I can do. I take a fortifying breath and venture out of the room.
Following the noise and the divine smell of freshly baked bread, I get to the kitchen and stop in my tracks.
Gio, with his back to me, is mixing something at the stove. The planes of his shoulders strain beneath his white undershirt, and my mind slides down the slippery slope of delicious fantasies.
As soon as last night flickers through my mind, the fantasies dissolve into a bitter aftertaste. Annoyance takes up their spot. Why does he have to be this gorgeous? Or rather, why do I have to be attracted to him? Just two weeks ago I disliked him.
I attempt to mentally list the reasons I never liked him, but it frustrates me because it’s gotten pathetically short. I can’t even blame him for dating bimbos because now, when I know the background behind it, it makes me sad. How lonely his life is to believe this is his only option.
What else?
He’s often arrogant, but this past week showed me it’s a combination of not being a people person—we can’t all be—and of having built a wall around himself. We all have them. In his case, his life has created experiences to reinforce those walls.
Not that I condone his overall attitude, but understanding what’s behind it taints it a different, less harsh color.
I don’t dislike him as much as I used to. In fact, I’m more intrigued by the caring man under all that bravado. And that makes his rejection sting even more.
“Good morning.” I pad toward a coffee pot on the island.
Gio turns to face me and we both still for a moment. If I thought I looked like shit after the sleepless night, we could both go to a zombie convention. The dark circles under his eyes are profound. The dark brown abyss. But this morning I don’t understand the gaze.
He looks worried. Is he worried I’d report what happened yesterday? Jesus, I didn’t even think of that. Consumed by his rejection, I licked my wounds with no regard to the circumstances.
We stare at each other, the unspoken words hovering in the space between us. I need this business trip to be over, because this tension and unresolved desire is destroying me slowly, painfully.
A charred odor drifts through the room and Gio whips around and lifts the pan.
“I made breakfast. Do you feel like mildly burned eggs?” He raises one eyebrow and I swear even that simple gesture is sexy. Yes, this trip needs to end.
I want to refuse and tell him I’ll wait for the ride outside, anywhere but near him, but my stomach growls. He doesn’t wait for my answer and distributes the scrambled mess onto two plates.
