Page 10 of Unholy Night
I should. I should shove him away, tell him he’s a monster. But the words lodge in my throat. Instead, I drag him back to me and crush my mouth to his. The second kiss is rougher, less careful. We’re devouring each other now, all teeth and tongue and the pent-up violence that has nowhere else to go.
I’m kissing a Rosetti. The enemy. And God help me, I don’t want to stop.
The thought should shame me, but instead it’s electric, a forbidden thrill that tightens my grip on his hair and makes my whole body clench with anticipation. His hand slides down my spine and then hastily up again, as if he’s afraid to let go of me even for a second. When he moves, his body cages mine, pinning me effortlessly, and the hard bulge of his gun jams against my hip—a brutal reminder of who he is, what I am, and how this can only end in heartbreak or worse.
His mouth moves from mine to my jaw, then to my neck, where he nips delicately at the skin before soothing it with his tongue. I tilt my head back for him, shameless, and his breath is hot against my collarbone. He mutters something in Italian—a curse, a prayer, maybe both—and it sends a white-hot pulse through my core.
My hands aren’t innocent, either. They find the edge of his shirt, the warmth of his skin beneath, the taut muscle and oldscars I’d glimpsed earlier. I want to map every inch of him, memorize the geography of this man who should be untouchable but is now, impossibly, mine. For tonight, at least. Maybe only for tonight.
He pulls back, just enough to look at me, pupils blown wide. I can feel the tension in his body, the effort it takes him to pull back.
“You keep doing that, Natalie, and I’m not going to be able to stop.”
“Who said you have to stop?”
"I have to protect you," he says, voice rough with barely leashed control.
"From what?"
"From me." His thumb strokes my lip, possessive and gentle at once. "You have no idea how dangerous this is. What you make me want."
"Tell me," I challenge, surprising myself with my boldness, even as my mind whispers that I'm betraying my father's memory.
His laugh is dark. "Everything. I want everything."
The possession in his voice ignites something in me. I kiss him harder, like I can taste his darkness and transform it into something else. Something that belongs to both of us.
He pulls back long enough to speak. "I want to corrupt every righteous bone in your body. Want to make you forget why you came here. Want to keep you."
I don’t answer. I don’t have to—my body says everything. I arch against him, swallowing his warning like it’s another mouthful of whiskey, and pull him down for another kiss. He groans again, softer this time, like he’s losing some private battle, and his hands slide under my shirt, callused fingers splaying over my ribcage.
It’s a risk, all of it. The proximity, the surrender, the devastating honesty of my own longing. I know it’s a mistake of mythic proportions. I know what it will cost me. But right now, the only thing I care about is how his hands feel skimming over my skin, how his mouth tastes, how his breath hitches at every tiny movement I make.
We finally break apart, both struggling to breathe normally. Neither of us apologizes. Neither of us pulls away completely. We stay there on the floor by the fireplace. I catch him looking at my mouth, and when our eyes meet, neither of us looks away.
"We should sleep," he says, but his eyes are dark with promises, and his hand still cups my jaw like I belong to him.
"Yes," I whisper, watching something formidable kindle in his eyes at my agreement.
The wind howls outside, rattling windows, reminding us we're still trapped here together. But the word 'trapped' feels wrong now. I'm exactly where I want to be, and that knowledge burns through me.
He stands first, offers me his hand. I take it, let him pull me to my feet, noting how he uses more strength than necessary, like he needs to remind us both of his power. We're standing close again, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, close enough to feel the gun pressing between us.
"The bed," I say, and watch his jaw tighten, see his control waver. "We agreed. Separate sides."
"Right." The word comes out rough, forced. "Separate sides."
But neither of us moves toward the bedroom. We stay by the fireplace, hands still linked, watching each other in the candlelight. Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve—the roads should start clearing by Christmas Day if Tomas's three-day prediction holds. Time is running out.
And suddenly, I'm grateful for whatever time the blizzard gives us. Grateful for the isolation. Grateful for this unholy night that cracked something open between us.
"Natalie," he says my name like a confession, like a claim.
"Tomorrow," I say, not sure what I'm promising. "We'll figure it out tomorrow."
His eyes darken further, turning predatory, and I know he hears what I'm really saying. Tonight we kissed. Tomorrow… tomorrow anything could happen.
He moves first, closing the distance between us in one stride. His hand slides into my hair, gripping just hard enough to make me gasp. The sharp pull sends heat straight through me, pooling between my legs.
