Page 76 of Mario
They don't.
Instead, a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreads through my chest. He is not just rejecting me. He is protecting me. From him. From myself.
It is the most maddening, infuriating, and intensely romantic thing anyone has ever done.
"I'm perfectly capable of making my own decisions," I say, my pride reasserting itself, even as my body screams in protest.
"No," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You are not."
He takes another step back, increasing the distance between us. "I will not be a bad decision made in a moment of weakness."
And there it is. The truth. He sees my exhaustion as a vulnerability, and he refuses to exploit it.
My anger deflates, replaced by a grudging, reluctant respect.
And a profound, soul-deep disappointment.
I reach down and pick up my briefcase, my movements slow, deliberate. I need something to do, something to hold onto.
"What happens now?" I ask, my voice quiet.
"You shower, eat a real meal, rest for a bit," he says.
"Then what?" I press.
He looks at me for a long moment. The hunger is still there, banked but not gone.
"Then," he says, "we fuck."
My breath catches. The blunt, crude promise hangs in the air between us. There is no poetry, no romance. Just a raw, primal statement of intent.
And it is exactly what I want to hear.
"When?" I ask. My voice is a whisper.
"The sooner you get started," he says, "the sooner we get there."
He pulls my keys out of his pocket again and opens my apartment with the second key on the ring.
I'm too stunned to speak, my mouth hanging slightly open.
Tonight? This is happening tonight?
The exhaustion that was making me miserable minutes ago is now being replaced with a fresh wave of energy. A wave of adrenaline so potent it makes me dizzy.
When I don't move, he gives me an intense look.
"Victoria. Go."
He is herding me, but I go without a fight. As soon as I cross the threshold, he is right behind me, closing the door, locking us in together. And that is all it takes to bring the tension back, thicker than ever.
He leads me from the entryway and into my living room. His presence is overwhelming in my space. My apartment is small, cozy, and filled with my things. My books, my art, the soft throw blankets I've accumulated over the years. It's my sanctuary.
And he is an intruder.
A beautiful, dangerous predator who has just claimed my territory.
My living room is clean but lived-in. I can see it through his eyes. The half-finished book on the coffee table. The stack of magazines. The stray pair of heels I kicked off by the sofa last night.
