Page 77 of Mario
He ignores it all.
He leads me to the narrow stairs that lead up to my bedroom and my bathroom.
"Go on," he says, pointing up. "Do as you're told."
I'm too startled to argue. I turn and climb the stairs, my legs feeling strangely steady, considering the circumstances. I can feel his eyes on me, watching my every step, and the heat between my thighs intensifies with each tread.
When I reach the top, I don't look back. I just go into my bedroom, flip on the light, and then walk straight into the adjoining bathroom to... do as I'm told.
Chapter Eight
Mario
The shower turns on upstairs.
For a moment, I stand in Victoria Murray’s living room and do not move.
The sound of water runs through the old pipes, faint at first, then louder. It fills the silence of her apartment and makes it feel domestic, intimate. Too intimate for a man who should not be here.
I am in her home.
Not an office. Not a conference room. Not a place where glass walls, assistants, security, and legal pretense can draw the line between what is acceptable and what is not.
Her home.
A narrow brownstone apartment with warm wood floors, books stacked in uneven piles, a soft gray throw over the arm of the sofa, a candle on the coffee table burned halfway down. There are shoes by the sofa, a mug in the sink, and a jacket tossed over the back of a chair. A framed print on the wall I do not recognize but like because she chose it.
It is small but hers.
And I am standing in it with the taste of her still in my mouth.
I close my eyes, which is a mistake.
The second I do, I feel her again.
Her mouth opening under mine. Her body trembling against the wall. The briefcase hitting the floor because she could not hold it and kiss me at the same time. Her hands on my coat, then on the wall, as if she needed something solid to keep her upright.
I have kissed women before.
Many women.
I have had women beautiful enough to turn heads in any room, eager enough to make a man careless, experienced enough to know exactly what they were offering and what they wanted in return.
None of them ever shook apart under my hands like Victoria.
None of them ever looked at me the way she did.
Like she was angry at herself for wanting me, but wanting me anyway.
My body tightens at the memory.
I open my eyes.
No.
She is upstairs. Exhausted, hungry. Barely steady on her feet. And I promised myself I would not have her like that.
But I did not promise I would leave.
