Page 14 of Luca
I hate them all.
I’m halfway through rifling through them when I hear the soft creak of the suite door.
He’s here.
I keep my back to him, pretending I didn’t notice. If I turn around, I might do something stupid. Like remember how his mouth felt on mine last night and start grinning like an idiot.
I reach for a blue blouse. My hand is steady. My heart? Not so much.
“Morning wardrobe inspection?” His voice is deep, and close enough that it vibrates in my bones.
“Picking something for our little tourist day,” I say, keeping it light. “Can’t exactly walk around Rome in a robe. Though it would make for some interesting street photography.”
He doesn’t laugh at my joke. Doesn’t even move.
I take my time buttoning the blouse. Sofia would be careful, precise. I’m careful too. Mostly because I notice him watching each button slip through its hole like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
Halfway up, his voice again: “You missed one.”
I glance down. He’s right. One is off. I go to fix it, but he’s already stepped forward, one large hand brushing mine aside.
“I’ve got it.”
He straightens the blouse, fingers grazing the hollow of my throat as he does the last button. The touch is so light it could be an accident.
It isn’t.
“You’re jumpy,” he says, finally meeting my eyes.
“I’m not used to an audience while I’m getting dressed.”
He leans one shoulder against the wardrobe, crossing his arms. “Get used to it. I like to watch.”
I pull a skirt from the hanger, step into it, shimmy it up over my hips. His gaze doesn’t drop. It stays level with my face, but I still feel it, the way you feel the sun on your skin even through closed blinds.
I reach for a pair of heels. He moves faster, plucking them from the low shelf and setting them in front of me. “Sit.”
It’s not a request.
I lower myself onto the velvet bench, and he crouches, actually crouches in front of me to slip the first shoe onto my foot. His hands are warm, firm. The leather slides over my heel with a perfect fit.
He doesn’t break eye contact as he fastens the strap.
Damn, that’s erotic.
The second shoe gets the same treatment. When he straightens, he’s close enough that the clean, spicy scent of him wraps around me.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Almost,” I say, reaching for a necklace.
He takes it from me without comment, steps behind, and drapes the chain along the back of my neck. His knuckles brush the bare skin below my shoulder, right where the tattoo starts.
“You hid this well last night,” he murmurs, fastening the clasp.
“Wasn’t trying to hide it.”
He studies me like he’s weighing whether or not to believe that. “I’ll want to see the rest of it later.”
