Page 23 of Take Me Under

Why did I let him stare for so long?

I bit my lower lip.

The question should have been, why did Iwanthim to stare?

My cheeks flushed with embarrassment when I thought about how easily I could have melted into him—a perfect stranger—while he was pulling the bobby pins from my hair. I didn’t know anyone in New York, I was almost broke, and I was in the home of a man who had seen me naked—twice—without my permission. And oddly, I was okay with all of it.

Am I so desperate for affection that I can just ignore the precarious spot I’m in?

Anton’s proximity was more potent than any drug could ever hope to be. He was dangerous, and he stirred something in me that I hadn’t felt in too long.

Desire.

Moving to the mirror, I ran a brush through my wet hair and considered the reasons that could explain my surprising ease with the situation.

Why Anton and why now?

I’d avoided men for the better part of the past year. I learned the hard way that no good could come from having one in my life. They couldn’t be trusted, and I’d happily committed to being the hero in my own story.

But then I met Anton Romano—the man who dared me to trustfall.

I’d never encountered anyone quite like him. The feelings he stirred were hot and addicting, and not at all welcomed. Not when so much was at stake.

Once I was dressed, I felt more like a human being with a clear head. Ideally, I’d love to be on a plane home today. But I also knew that booking a same-day international flight to Italy would likely pose a challenge to my already thin wallet. I’d probably need to find a hotel to crash in until I could get anaffordable flight. I just wasn’t sure if the cost savings would be worth it. However, before I did anything, I had to call home.

Moving to the bedroom, I retrieved my cell phone from Anton’s nightstand. I began to dial my mother but paused when I caught a glimmer of something inside the bedroom closet. The door had been left open a crack, allowing a glimpse of what was inside. Curious, I pushed it just enough so I could see better.

The closet screamed luxury, with perfectly organized rows of suits, each tailored to perfection. Stepping further into the space, I couldn’t help but run my fingers over the luxurious material. Like the bathroom, not a thing was out of place. Each suit hung perfectly—almost too perfectly—presenting like a museum showcasing masculine colors and styles. I marveled at the meticulous organization.

But what had caught my eye from the bedroom were the sparkling glints reflecting off a large display of cufflinks. They shimmered in the soft light, each pair more dazzling than the next. From classic gold to sparkling gemstones, they highlighted Anton’s impeccable taste. It was clear that no expense had been spared, yet I found the sophisticated accessories to be at odds with the dangerous vibe he gave off.

Who are you, Anton Romano?

I suspected he had a story. What it was, I didn’t know. He both intrigued and scared me, yet I still wanted to know more about the man behind the polished exterior. Perhaps, in another life, I might have been afforded the opportunity. But not in this one. I had responsibilities that dictated my every move, and men who looked like Anton Romano were not on the agenda.

With a sigh, I left the closet and headed out of the bedroom with my suitcases in tow. When I stepped into the hallway, I was confronted with a sizzling sound and the smell of bacon. My stomach growled. Following the scent, I navigated through the penthouse in search of the kitchen.

Despite my unease about the unfamiliar setting, it was hardnot to appreciate the lavish surroundings. The penthouse was a sweeping display of luxury, from the modern crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings to the plush, deep burgundy couches. The walls were painted with rich colors and adorned with expensive artwork, and the tall windows offered breathtaking views of New York City.

I entered the kitchen at the same time Anton placed a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and toast on the black marble topped island. Like the rest of the penthouse, the kitchen was sleek and modern, with polished stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops. The walls were painted a warm gray with glossy cream-colored cabinetry lining them.

Despite its splendor, the décor seemed to blur into the background. All I was able to see was Anton.

When I’d first met him outside the Met Gala, he looked debonair and irresistible in a tuxedo, exuding wealth and privilege. But here, in the penthouse, he looked different—more casual and at ease in his dark denim and T-shirt.

I felt a tightening in my core. The casual version of Anton was so much more potent. Seeing him like this was deadly, making him seem more relatable even though we lived worlds apart.

His jeans were comfortably loose, yet still managed to mold around his hips and thighs. His fitted T-shirt accentuated his broad chest and thick muscular arms. Music was playing. I recognized “In The End” by Linkin Park coming from speakers hidden somewhere in the room. The dark lyrics about personal struggle only seemed to amplify Anton’s sex appeal.

The muscles in his shoulders rippled as he leaned forward, bracing both palms on the countertop. My stomach twisted, and my heart raced.

Focus. Put one foot in front of the other. You aren’t sixteen.

As I approached the large island in the center of the room, Ipracticed nonchalance. I wanted to appear confident, even though I felt anything but.

Anton glanced down at my suitcases and frowned. He seemed annoyed to see them but didn’t comment.

“Sit,” he told me, pointing to one of the six cushioned barstools that lined the long countertop.

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