“Marinara. It was marinara.”
She laughs. Wet and shaky but real. “Enzo.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop talking.”
Suddenly her mouth is on mine and nothing else matters.
She tastes like tears and coffee and something sweet. Her hands fist in my jacket, pulling me closer, and mine find her waist, his shirt soft under my fingers, her body warm beneath it.
The kiss isn’t gentle. I don’t know how to be gentle.
It’s desperate. Hungry. Weeks of watching her, wanting her, holding myself back, all of it crashing together at once.
She makes a sound against my mouth. Small. Needy. And something in me snaps.
I walk her backward. Her back hits the wall and I crowd into her space, one hand braced beside her head, the other tangled in her hair. She arches into me, gasping, and I swallow the sound.
Fuck.
She feels perfect. Fits against me like she was made for it. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, pulling me closer, and I want… I want…
I want everything.
I want to lift her up and carry her to the bedroom and worship every inch of her until she forgets her own name.
I want to peel that shirt off her and replace every trace of Dario’s scent with mine.
I want to keep her. Hide her. Make sure no one ever touches her again. But I can’t.
I pull back. Breathing hard.
“We should stop,” I manage.
“Probably.” She doesn’t let go of my jacket. “Do you want to?”
No.
“You’re wearing his shirt.”
“I know.”
“You still want him.”
“I know.” Her eyes meet mine. Honest. Open. “But I want you too. Is that? Is that okay?”
I should say no. Should put distance between us. Should remember that she’s not mine, that she’s Dario’s, that I’m just the guy who watches her from shadows and makes sure she doesn’t get killed.
But she’s looking at me like wanting me isn’t something she’s ashamed of.
“It’s okay,” I hear myself say. “It’s… yeah. It’s okay.”
She kisses me again. Softer this time. Slower.
And I let myself sink into it.
Her hands slide inside my jacket. Find the hem of my shirt. Her fingers brush bare skin and I shudder.
