Page 38 of Dirty Game
Someone who stares at his mouth when he talks.
Someone who lies awake replaying two seconds of contact like it holds the secrets of the universe.
I don't understand gentleness.
My family never?—
I push the thought away before it can form completely, but the ghosts linger.
Uncle Enzo's rough hands shoving me into walls.
Marco's fingers leaving bruises that bloomed like dying flowers.
Even my mother, before she died, had touched me with the efficiency of necessity rather than affection.
Quick braids pulled too tight. Swift pats on the shoulder that felt more like punctuation than comfort.
But Varrick's kiss had been neither cruel nor efficient.
It had been... careful.
Like I was something that might break if handled wrong.
Like I was something worth being careful with.
The numbers in front of me blur.
I've been staring at the same forensic accounting report for an hour, finding evidence of another mole in his organization, but I can't focus.
Every time I try, I remember the warmth of his breath against my lips, the way his hand had trembled slightly where it cupped my jaw, how he'd pulled back almost immediately like he'd burned himself.
We've been dancing around each other since.
He brings me food but doesn't stay to watch me eat.
He checks my work but keeps the desk between us.
He looks at me when he thinks I won't notice, with an expression I can't decipher—hunger mixed with something that looks almost like pain.
Maria tells me he's been spending more time in the gym, working out his frustrations on punching bags that never survive more than a week.
Jensen mentions, carefully casual, that the boss hasn't been sleeping well.
Even the men who work for him have noticed something's shifted, though none dare comment directly.
And I can't stop touching my lips.
It's midnight when I give up on sleep and wander through the penthouse.
My feet know where they're taking me before my brain admits it.
The gym is in the lower level, a space that smells like a mixture of antiseptic and sweat.
I hear him before I see him—the rhythmic impact of fists against canvas, the controlled breathing of someone who's learned to channel rage into precision.
But when I reach the doorway, he's not boxing.
He's sitting on the floor, surrounded by photographs.
