Page 55 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
The whites of his eyes gleam at me, and a knot twists deep in my gut. It feels like satisfaction.
“And what part of ‘don’t tell me what to do’ doyounot understand?” I can only squeeze out a whisper.
A whisper and a smile.
Confusion clouds his face, along with something else. Something darker than he’s let me see before.
Then I’m disoriented beyond measure.
A giant fist slams down on the kitchen surface, and my jaw is freed. I stagger backward and spin around to see Cristiano facing the counter.
His arms are braced, his knuckles white from where he’s gripping the edges. I only notice the way his back rises and falls as he gasps for air because the movement mirrors my own. I can’t seem to catch my breath.
“What just happened?” I whisper.
He squeezes his eyes closed and then curls both his hands into fists on the countertop. “I nearly kissed you,” he says slowly. “That’s what just happened.”
My gut implodes.
The few kisses I experienced as a young adult left me wondering what the fuss was all about, but right now, my lips aretinglingwith the need to press against his. It’s an urge so raw, so brazen, and so foreign to me, but I need it like oxygen.
My entire pelvic area has turned to jelly, while he seems more solid and defiant than ever. Myriad responses flashthrough my mind, but none of them feel appropriate. There really is no appropriate way to say “I wish you had.” At least not when it’s being said to the brother of one’s fiancé.
So instead I do whatever any self-disrespecting Cosa Nostra fiancée would do: I take full responsibility and apologize.
“I-I’m sorry.”
He turns his head a fraction but keeps his eyes closed. “Don’t youdareapologize for a man’s behavior.”
I go to open my mouth, but his lids ping open, spearing me to the spot.
“I nearly kissedyou,” he repeats. “You did nothing wrong.”
Despite his assertion, I can hear Papa and Allegra’s words ringing in my ears, chastising me for drawing his eyes, riling his temper, and using my feminine wiles to lead him astray.
Everything stills—even my beating heart.
“What if I wanted you to?”
I lower my gaze to the floor, afraid to look at him. The burn of his stare mellows into a warm caress on the side of my face.
“You can’t say things like that to me, Castellano.” His voice is soft, but it carries a dark warning.
I inhale a shallow breath. “But it’s true. I wanted you to kiss me.”
A glance through the corner of my lowered lids makes my breath hitch. He’s released his fists from the counter and is now stretching and flexing his fingers while his eyes scan me intensely.
He takes a slow step toward me, then another one, until his chest is almost brushing my nipples. My spine cries out to arch a little so I can press my breasts into him, but the look on his face is agonized, as though he’s debating the merits of ending me and putting himself out of his misery.
He brings a rough palm up to my face and lets it rest there gently. “Listen to me,” he says, his voice lucid and low. “There’s no room in this life for wanting something you can’t have.”
My breath stutters inside my chest as his deep burgundy eyes make my skin burn.
I part my lips to speak, but his forefinger moves across them and presses down gently.
His voice dips with the stroke of defeat. “Sometimes the best memories are the ones we can’t make.”
He drops his hand from my face and walks out of the kitchen toward the expansive windows. The sky outside is darkening with thunderclouds. With the oppressive humidity we’ve been having, we’re due a storm.
