Page 10 of Sicilian Sunset

So far, he hasn’t uttered a single word, and at this stage, I don’t know if he speaks English. Surely he would. He looks too sophisticated not to.

Collecting myself, I turn around to face him and ask again, “Are you okay? Is your shoulder hurting?”

“I’m fine,” he finally replies.

Thank God he speaks English.

“Are you hurt?” He looks me up and down with a concerned expression on his handsome face. “Your hands are shaking,” he observes.

“I’m a little freaked out,” I admit. “No, actually… make that a lot freaked out.”

He approaches Suit Guy, who followed us inside and tells him something in Italian. Not for the first time on this holiday, I wish I hadn’t bailed on the Italian classes Rhia signed us up for when we first had the idea to visit Sicily. But I figured we’d be okay if she knew some Italian, so I skipped the course.

Suit Guy leaves, and as the door closes behind him, the room seems to shrink in the overwhelming presence of this enigmatic man.

Shit. We’re alone.

All sound is sucked out, and it’s like the air has been vacuumed from my lungs, leaving me light-headed and flustered.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome draws in a deep breath. He remains by the door as his gaze slides down the length of my body, taking me in slowly from head to toe.

Oh. My. God.

My cheeks turn crimson red. The room feels even more cramped, as the walls close in and breathing becomes a chore.

Jeez, it’s too hot in here. I look around, searching for a window to let in some air.

My attention is immediately drawn back to him, as he walks towards me in determined strides, taking off his torn jacket and tossing it on a nearby

table.

My stomach somersaults at the sight.

Oh my, I wasn’t wrong about his arms. He definitely works out… a lot. I bite my lip to stop an embarrassing moan from slipping out.

As I drop my gaze to the floor, I can’t help but notice the bulge in his pants. I almost do a double-take. Was that… is that… oh my God… is he hard?

Too much blood roars all at once through my system.

Fricking hell. Calm the heck down.

“Have a seat,” he says, pulling out a chair for me.

I gladly comply, my legs too wobbly to hold me up much longer. For a second, I’m at eye level with his crotch—I look away quickly.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

He crouches in front of me, his broad chest expanding with each breath in, filling the space between us. The scent of his aftershave registers in my brain.

God, he smells good!

I want to nuzzle into his neck and breathe him in. As if on autopilot, my body is on the move to get closer, but I catch myself just in time.

“Come ti chiami?” Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome breaks the silence. “What’s your name?”

“Ella,” I reply quietly, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Ella Rose O’Neil.”

Why did I answer with my full name? We’re not in school here.

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