Page 18 of Claimed By the Enemy
But then I remember that knowledge is dangerous. That the less Amara knows, the safer she is.
“I made some choices,” I say finally. “Good choices, bad choices, I’m not sure yet. But they’re mine.”
***
Dom is waiting for me when I stumble through the front door at nearly midnight. He’s sitting in the living room like some dark prince holding court, still wearing his suit from whatever meetings kept him busy all day.
“Late night,” he observes.
“Freedom of movement.” I kick off my heels, enjoying the way they clatter against the marble floor. “Remember that concept?”
“I remember you being drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.” I am definitely drunk, but admitting it feels like giving him ammunition. “I’m relaxed.”
“Raff said you insisted on staying when he tried to bring you home hours ago,” Dom says sharply, standing to block my path to the stairs.
“So?” I laugh, the sound coming out looser than I intended. “What does it matter? I’m here now, aren’t I?”
The alcohol has loosened something in me, stripped away the careful walls I usually keep up around him. When I look at Dom now, I don’t just see the enemy. I see the sharp line of his jaw, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the darkness in his eyes that makes my stomach flip.
“God, you’re handsome,” I say before I can stop myself, reaching up to touch his face. “Why do you have to be so handsome? It’s not fair.”
Dom goes very still under my touch. “Sophie…”
“I should hate you,” I whisper, my thumb tracing along his cheekbone. “I’m supposed to hate you. But I can’t, and I don’t know why.”
He catches my hand, holding it against his face. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m honest.” I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “For once in my life, I’m being completely honest.”
“Sophie, we can’t—”
“Can’t what?” I’m looking at his mouth now, at the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. “Can’t admit that there’s something between us? Can’t stop pretending that we don’t want each other?”
Dom’s other hand comes up to frame my face, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip. “This is a mistake.”
“Probably.”
“You’ll regret it tomorrow.”
“Maybe.”
We’re so close now that I can count his eyelashes, can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. All I have to do is lean forward, just a little.
And then his mouth is on mine, and I’m lost.
My arms wind around his neck without my permission, my body melting against his like it recognizes something my mind refuses to accept.
This is what I’ve been fighting. Not just Dom, but this. This connection that has nothing to do with family histories or corporate vendettas or the ring on my finger.
It lasts only, maybe, thirty seconds.
Dom pulls back abruptly, dropping his hands and stepping away.
“Go to bed, Sophie,” he says quietly. “Sleep this off.”
The rejection stings more than it should. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling cold and exposed.
