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There’s nothing to be done about my torn shirt, but he picks up my hairpin, plants a kiss on my temple, then grabs my hand, pulling me across the waiting room and into my office.
Legs still trembling, I collapse into one of the chairs while Nico goes to the adjoining bathroom to take care of the condom.
He returns to the room and heads straight for my couch, throwing his large frame across it while twirling the transparent plastic hairpin between his hands. The tension is beginning to settle back into his shoulders, but I’m surprised when he asks, “How was your day?”
It's a simple question, really, but somehow, it almost feels more intimate than the sex we just had.
Like the first orgasm he ever gave me.
Like that single hand he had on my back at Rafe’s funeral.
Like the bandage he put over my palm on Mud Night. All those times he puts his feelings aside to cater to me.
“It was alright. A bit manic in the morning with an accidental double booking, but we managed in the end.” I kick off my heels so my legs are less shaky, then stand and head for the hidden closet on the far wall. I grab the suitcase stashed inside.
“Do you have other clients who have, or may have ties to the underworld?” Nico asks.
“Like you, you mean?” I unzip the suitcase and rummage through it.
“I’m not your client, fiammetta. I’m the twisted fuck who wants to ruin you.”
That should scare me, given what I’m starting to feel for the man, but it doesn’t. “I suppose that’s a leg up from the twisted fuck who wants to kill me.”
“Damn straight,” he deadpans. Then, as if just noticing what I’m doing, he asks, “You keep a suitcase full of clothes at your office?” He stands as I pull out a fresh shirt.
“Yup,” I say, shrugging out of the torn one and slipping the silk top over my head.
“Why?” he asks. He’s moved beside me and now peers into the bag.
“For when clients ruin my clothes during sex,” I say, pleased with my straight face.
He cuts me a look, brows drawn down in irritation.
I laugh, “Let me guess; you were a virgin up until we screwed each other’s brains out the other night?”
“That’s not the point,” Nico snaps.
“What’s the point then?”
“I don’t fucking share, Sophie. Just so we’re clear, I’ll put a bullet in anyone who looks at you wrong, much less touches you. And,” he holds my gaze steadily, “I’ll sleep like a baby after.”
I laugh, knowing the way his words warm me indicates that there must be something seriously wrong with me. “Okay, fine. And just so you know, I don’t share either.”
“Why do you think I flew back from Las Vegas last night?”
Suddenly, his blue eyes are too intense. Too serious
“You did that?”
He ignores my question and instead asks, “You still haven't told me why you have a suitcase full of clothes.”
I explain, feeling slightly sheepish. “It’s… an emergency bag for if I ever need to grab and go,”
He looks at me; the wheels are turning behind his eyes.
“Is this where you point out that women in nice, ‘new-life boxes’ don’t need grab bags?” I ask, cringing just a little because he wouldn’t be wrong there.
But he shakes his head. “It’s smart, Sophie. I like that about you.”
