Page 185 of Mario
“Yes.”
“Adult sons.”
“Also, yes.”
I look away and press my lips together.
Mario steps closer. “Does that bother you?”
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
Not enough.
That is the problem.
“It should,” I say honestly.
His gaze moves over my face, careful now. “Does it?”
I take a breath.
It would be easier if I could lie.
It would be easier if I could say yes, excuse myself, return to my apartment, and resume being a sensible person with sensible boundaries and a sensible understanding of why sleeping with a powerful client who has adult sons is a catastrophic idea.
But I am not leaving.
I know that.
He knows that.
And the heat burning in my stomach definitely knows that.
“It… bothers me that it doesn’t bother me,” I say. “It makes me question my judgment.”
His mouth curves faintly. “Only that?”
I hate that my own mouth wants to curve in response.
“Do not look pleased with yourself.”
“I am trying not to.”
“You are failing.”
“I often do with you.”
That is unfair.
Soft enough to disarm me.
Honest enough to make my chest tighten.
Then he touches my lower back, just a light pressure through the fabric of my coat, and my entire moral crisis takes a step back to make room for wanting him.
