Page 39 of Desperate Desires

He wore Italian leather shoes, polished to a subtle shine. They looked like they cost more than most people’s rent.

The whole outfit together would probably pay mine for a half a year and that was saying something. Hoboken rents were not cheap.

His clothes were tasteful. Donning a simple façade, but each choice was deliberate, giving him an air of effortless elegance and muted strength.

My breath caught in my throat as my thorough perusal reached his face.

God, how did I forget how handsome he was?

It had only been a few days since I’d seen him.

Held him.

Kissed those lips.

Felt his big body writhing over mine.

His dark hair was combed back from his face in a way that felt almost old-school, but modern at the same time.

Every strand stayed in its place, like even his hair dared not defy him. He was just so damn perfect.

It made me angry. Made me want to press my body against his, run my fingers through it, leave a lipstick stain on his collar.

The shadow of scruff dusting his jawline and cheeks deepened the sharp angles of his face, making his already striking features appear even more chiseled.

The contrast between the sleekness of his clothes and the rough edge of his five o’clock shadow made it impossible for me to look away.

He commanded every iota of my attention. And it was infuriating.

Ono Bottarelli was the kind of handsome that made you feel a little off-balance, like the room shifted just because he was in it.

Stupid dumb jerk.

I shouldn’t be standing there waxing poetic about his beauty like some love-struck idiot.

“What’s that look for, Bellezza?”

“You’re in all black. Come from a funeral or something?” I said.

“Something,” he said, and I felt electricity sizzling between us.

He stood there like a dark dream. There wasn’t a single splash of color on him.

None.

Nada.

Zilch.

Except for his eyes.

Those were like shards of polished stone, cutting through the monochrome of his appearance, flickering with something sharp and alive.

Something deadly.

As if he was thinking about some deliciously dirty secret that only he knew.

Even the tattoos that peeked out from beneath his shirt collar and cuffs curling across his neck and the backs of his hands were void of color.

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