Page 35 of Impulse Control
I hesitated, every internal alarm flickering to life.
“Dominic—”
“Just look,” he coaxed, nodding toward the mirror.
Against my better judgment, I did.
The sight caught me off guard. Us. Together. Him standing just behind me, close enough that his presence framed mine without touching. The lobby lights warmed everything they touched, and somehow, they caught my eyes just right—hazel sharpened into green, deeper than usual thanks to the dark fabric of my dress.
The dress. I’d chosen it without much thought, but now I saw what he saw. Deep green, simple lines, the kind of dress that looks great on everyone. My hair was down, longer than it had ever been, falling loose over my shoulders.
Dominic’s reflection shifted as he lifted a hand and, with infuriating gentleness, brushed my hair over one shoulder. The movement bared the side of my throat, the line of my collarbone. The rest of my hair slid forward, draping past my breast, dark against the green.
His skin, honey-kissed and warm, was a striking contrast to mine—paler, cooler. He looked larger somehow in the mirror, broad-shouldered in his casual suit, all relaxed confidence and quiet power. Larger than life.
Yet—it was his eyes that undid me.
Focused. Intent. Like the entire lobby had dissolved and I was the only thing left worth looking at.
“You see only us,” he murmured near my ear. “Don’t you?”
I swallowed. “You’re projecting.”
He smiled, slow and knowing. “I’m just noticing.”
The elevator chimed softly behind us, doors sliding open. I should have pulled away. Created space. Said something sensible and responsible. Instead, I stayed exactly where I was.
Dominic leaned in just enough that his breath brushed my skin. “Come up to my room,” he said quietly.
A shiver rippled up my spine. An invitation with consequences.
Two years earlier…
I was halfway between telling myself I was being ridiculous and checking the time for the fourth time when the knock finally came.
Not loud. Not tentative. Confident. Like he already knew I’d open the door.
I padded across the dorm room in socked feet, the linoleum cold beneath them, and opened it?—
—and the smell hit me first.
Garlic. Hot cheese. Bread fresh enough that it still breathed. My stomach betrayed me instantly, a sharp, needy pang that made my resolve wobble.
Then I actually looked at him.
Dominic stood there like he’d stepped out of a different world and decided my dingy dorm hallway was worthy of him. Jacket gone, sleeves rolled, hair just slightly wind-tousled like the city had taken a pass at him and lost. One hand held a stackof pizza boxes. The other cradled a paper bag, grease already blooming through the bottom.
“Brooklyn,” he said, pleased. “And a detour.”
My brows knit. “A detour.”
“Garlic cheese sticks,” he clarified. “I was told it would be criminal not to.”
I laughed despite myself, stepping back to let the door swing wider. The scent followed him in, curling around me, warm and indulgent and unfair.
His gaze swept over me once—slow, deliberate, appreciative.
Sleep shorts. My old sweatshirt, the one I’d taken scissors to in a fit of rebellion, neckline stretched wide enough to slip off one shoulder, sleeves hacked off entirely. My hair was a mess. Bare face. Zero effort.
