Something is deeply, catastrophically wrong with me and my uterus needs to be placed in federal custody.
He’s getting arrested and I’m getting wet.
We are not the same. Or maybe we are.
My vision tunnels. Edges going gray. Heart trying to exit through my ribcage.
I should look away. Run.
But I can’t move.
Can’t breathe. Can’t stop staring at him standing there like casual homicide is just another Tuesday.
“Look at me.”
The voice cuts through the static.
I blink.
Dario’s there. Right there. Crouched beside my booth like he didn’t just ruin someone’s whole ribcage and walk away cleaner than a Tide ad.
One hand on my arm. One braced on the table.
If he touched me for real, I’d probably die. Or moan. Or both.
He just killed someone and all I can think about is whether his hands would feel this warm everywhere.
Up close he’s even more devastating. Dark eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes me want to bite his lip.
I’m going to hell. There’s an express lane with my name on it.
“Breathe,” he says. Firm. Commanding. The voice of a man used to being obeyed.
“Yes, sir.” My body responds before my brain catches up. I suck in air.
He smells like expensive cologne and dominance. I want to lick his throat.
What the fuck is wrong with me.
“Good girl,” he says, still watching me. “Again.”
I breathe. He doesn’t look away.
Nobody’s ever looked at me like this. Like I’m the only person in the room. Like I matter.
Did he just praise me? That’s foreplay.
I’m having a sexual crisis in the middle of a crime scene.
Someone’s shouting. Multiple someones. Sirens wailing closer.
“Boss, we gotta go. Now.”
A different man. Built like he eats motorcycles for breakfast. Also hot.
But Dario doesn’t move. Doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“You need water,” he says.
