Page 4 of Beauty and the Daddy
It's not like we're here to steal paperclips.
And that's when it happens.
The doors open like a theater curtain.
Luca Moretti walks in, and all the oxygen leaves with him.
The Beast of New York. In the flesh.
Six-foot-something of controlled violence in a black shirt that clings to him like sin.
Dark hair still damp with sweat. Gray eyes that sweep the room and categorize everything in it, including me, in about two seconds.
My pulse goes nuclear.
This isn't just trouble. This is the kind of man mothers warn daughters about.
The kind who leaves women broken or dead or wishing they were.
The kind who makes me forget I'm supposed to be terrified.
My brow starts to sweat when our eyes lock.
I've never been so scared and so turned on at the same time.
A feeling that's foreign, considering I'm the world's most unexpected virgin at age twenty-six.
Don't make fun of me. I'm just waiting on Mr. Right.
But this man isn't Mr. Right.
He feels like every bad decision and every action movie just shit out John Wick's sexy older brother.
He moves like a panther—smooth, lethal, like he owns every single molecule of oxygen in here.
He prowls right over to us, grabs a chair, spins it around, and straddles it backward.
Who does that? Who sits like some sexy delinquent in a 90s teen drama when he owns this whole damn place?
Up close, he's worse.
A scar through his eyebrow. Another at the corner of his mouth that makes his almost-smile look like a threat.
Eyes that aren't just gray, they're smoke over steel, and they see everything.
The flutter at my throat.
The way I press my thighs together.
The breath I can't quite catch.
He catalogs it all like he's making a shopping list. Or a battle plan.
He doesn't blink. Doesn't smile.
Just stares at me with that lethal calm like he's memorizing the shape of my face, the color of my eyes.
And all I can think is:Yep, this is how virgins get in trouble.
