Page 168 of Rosetti Family New York
He jerks, shocked, but I'm already there. It's fire under my skin. His chest is hard beneath my palms, skin burning hot.
"Sloane," he says, like he's sure I'm losing my mind.
I am. I've lost it all, and there's nothing left but him.
I straddle his hips, hear him suck in a breath, feel him grow hard under me. My whole body responds, alive and electric. It shoots through me like a drug. Heat pools low in my belly, and Irock against him, seeking friction, seeking relief from this fever building inside me.
I rock forward, feel him through the thin fabric of his shorts. His fingers dig into my thighs, half trying to hold me off, half pulling me closer. My nipples tighten beneath my tank top, the fabric suddenly too rough, too restrictive. I want to feel his skin against mine, want to drown in the sensation.
"Sloane." It sounds different now. His eyes are dark and knowing, pupils blown wide with desire. "You don't want this."
"I do." I can barely hear myself over the pounding of my heart. "I do want it."
He hesitates, and I know I have him. I move again, closer, closer, finding the hot length of him, feeling it so near to me. My head swims. I think I'm drowning.
But then he's pushing me back, hard and sudden.
"Stop," he says, a rough edge in his voice. "This isn't happening."
His palm cups my cheek for the briefest moment, his thumb brushing across my lower lip in a touch so tender it breaks something inside me. Our eyes lock, and I see the battle raging within him – desire fighting against some kind of twisted honor.
My mind is spinning, body catching up with it. I want to crawl back onto him, but the way he looks at me—so sure I'm losing it—stops me.
"You don't know what you're doing," he says, trying to put space between us. I'm still panting. Shaking. "Get out."
His hands are on my shoulders, guiding me off him, off the bed. It feels cold everywhere we're not touching.
"Leave," he says again.
But all I can think is that I'm going to get him. One way or another.
I'm going to get him.
4
Rafaele
Early morning frost clings to the kitchen windows. I flick the coffee maker on, its click louder than a gunshot in the empty room. I’m alone, but my thoughts are like shadows, they follow me everywhere. The girl is upstairs, asleep. I should be gone. I should have melted into the night like I always do, but here I am, still thinking about her.
She got in way over her head last night. Best friend dead in an alley, just a few blocks from here. A big Callahan mess. The wise thing would’ve been to vanish. But the look in her eyes stopped me. I could see her breaking, and for the first time in years, I gave a damn. Maybe that’s why I stopped her from calling the cops. I was doing her a favor, for some unknown damn reason. The cops wouldn’t find anything, and she’d end up with a target on her back.
I drag a hand over my face. Feels like sandpaper. I haven’t slept, not really.
I tried not to remember the way she sneaked into my bed. Jesus. Almost had me. I had just started to fall asleep when I felt the mattress shift under me. Thought I was dreaming at first,but when I opened my eyes, she was there, climbing on top of me. All soft and warm, her hair spilling over my chest. A sweet, tempting promise that I knew damn well I should ignore. I was a split-second away from losing control, from plunging my cock into her and making her cry out my name. Almost did it, too. It would have been so easy to give in, to let her take all that grief and shock and turn it into lust. She was right there, ready, and God, did I want her.
It wasn’t right, though. I made myself stop, held her at arm’s length even when it felt like torture.
The girl was something else. Left me hard all night, even after I jerked off. I should be used to this by now, walking away, leaving them wanting, putting distance between me and them. But she is different. She got to me, and here I am in the morning, still thinking about her.
I pour myself a mug and sit at the table. She’s a pretty thing. Strong, but too trusting. That’s how people get killed in this world. A few months ago, I’d have left her in the alley and forgotten she existed. Now I’m sitting here like a fool.
The floor creaks above me. She’s awake.
I brace myself, sip my coffee. I wonder if she’ll look at me different today. If she’ll finally figure out she should be scared. Then I remember last night, how she didn’t even flinch when I opened the door to my apartment, and I know she won’t.
She walks into the kitchen, her steps quiet but steady. She sees me and stops short, like she’s surprised I’m still here.
“Morning,” she says. Her voice is small, a little broken around the edges.
