Page 305 of Rosetti Family New York
He moves to different files, and I'm intrigued despite myself by the depth of analysis. The attention feels overwhelming and oddly comforting.
"Paris," he says, opening footage that makes my stomach tighten. "The gallery opening where you wore the red dress."
I remember that night, playing a role for a mark. But watching myself on his screens, I see something different. Not the confident operator I thought I'd shown, but someone fighting loneliness so deep it showed in my posture.
"You looked beautiful," he says, voice rough. "But empty. Like you were acting happy for people who didn't matter while the woman beneath slowly vanished."
The observation cuts too close to truth. "And what did you want to do about that?"
"Everything." The word is raw and honest. "I wanted to appear beside you at that opening, to remind you who you were. I wanted to take you home and spend hours proving that the real you was worth more than any role you might play."
The bare longing in his confession makes heat pool between my thighs. He doesn’t just want my body, he wants to restore the parts of my soul I gave up to survive.
"Why didn't you?"
"Because you needed to choose me freely." His eyes lock onto mine with devastating intensity. "I could have taken you anytime. But I wanted you to want to be taken."
His words hang in the air. All his patience and planning led to this moment, when I’d stop running and start asking to be caught.
And God help me, seated here amid proof of his devotion, I’m starting to understand why surrender could feel so right.
"The cameras," I say, a sudden thought making my pulse race. "You're still watching me. Here, in the penthouse."
"Always." No shame, no apology. "Every room, every moment. Watching you adjust to being home, seeing you relax bit by bit, noting the exact moment you stopped looking for escape routes."
His calm admission doesn’t horrify me, it sends awareness tingling across my skin.
"I'm always watching you." His voice holds a predatory satisfaction that makes my core clench. "But right now I'm also touching you."
I follow his gaze to where his hand rests on my thigh, his thumb tracing patterns on the silk pajamas I’d forgotten I was wearing. The contact burns like fire, making clear thought impossible.
"This is insane," I breathe, though I don’t move away.
"This is love," he corrects, sliding his hand higher until his palm covers the curve of my hip. "Adjusted for the fact that the woman I love spent years becoming invisible to everyone except me."
His way of turning obsession into devotion makes a warmth rise in my chest.
"I hate that," I whisper, leaning into his touch despite myself.
"No you don't." His thumb traces the sensitive spot where my hip meets my thigh, making me gasp. "You're curious. About how deep this goes, how much I know."
He's right, and realizing this scares me more than any outside threat.
"Show me," I whisper, deciding despite the consequences I can't figure out. "Show me how you see me when I don't know I'm being watched."
Something dark and eager flashes in his eyes. "Bedroom footage?"
"All of it." The words slip out before my courage fades. "I want to understand what you've seen."
He pauses, his fingers still on my thigh. "Okay."
His screens fill with footage that makes me freeze, intimate moments I thought were private, captured with clarity that shows every detail. Me sleeping, me showering, me touching myself in beds across the world while thinking about stormy gray eyes and possessive hands.
"Jesus," I whisper, watching myself arch against hotel pillows, gasping his name. "You've seen all of this."
"Every second." His tone roughens with barely controlled hunger. "Each night you touched yourself thinking about me, moments when you gave in to needs you thought no one saw."
The footage shows a truth I'd tried to deny. Even while running from him, I'd been longing for him.
