Maybe he has done it a thousand times.
That should horrify me.
It doesn’t.
My thighs clench so hard I’m surprised the microphone doesn’t pick up the sound. I shift. My panties rub against my clit.
Fuck.
“And then?” Mr. Harrison prompts.
“The other man was on the floor. There was blood.” My voice cracks.
I look at Dario without meaning to.
He’s still watching me. Still calm. And when he sees me struggling, he does it again. That small nod. That gentle encouragement.
You’re doing fine. Keep going.
Was that praise in the form of eye contact?
How am I supposed to ruin his life when he’s looking at me like that?
“What happened next?” Mr. Harrison asks.
“I started to pass out.” I’m staring at Dario. Can’t look away. “Everything went grey. I couldn’t breathe. And then he...”
I shift again.
Cloth on cunt.
Dario’s eyes soften. Just enough that I see it.
“Mr. Marchetti came over to me,” I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. “Made sure I was okay. Got me water. Stayed with me.”
The jury murmurs.
Because it doesn’t fit, does it? The dangerous criminal who stops to help a witness who’s about to destroy him.
Dario’s still looking at me like he knows I feel his eyes on my flesh.
My body’s screaming at me to do something about it.
The wetness between my legs is becoming a genuine concern.
Mr. Harrison asks more questions. About the police. About my statement. About how certain I am.
I answer on autopilot.
But every time I glance at Dario, and I glance at him constantly, compulsively, he’s there. Present. His attention never wavers.
It feels like being touched.
Like his hands on my skin.
Like more.
Someone in the jury box shifts uncomfortably. A woman in the second row is looking between me and Dario with raised eyebrows.
