Page 89 of Mario
I try not to think about the state of my room.
My bed is unmade because I have not had a single coherent morning all week. My discarded work clothes are folded over the chair by the window. A book is lying facedown on my nightstand. There is a glass of water beside it, half-empty.
My room feels too personal with him in it.
And too small.
His eyes move over my face, and the hunger in them is no longer hidden. It is not polished or careful. Not the kind of contained desire I have seen across desks and conference tables.
This is different.
This is alive and dangerous.
The thing I felt from the beginning and told myself I was imagining.
“You are certain,” he says.
It is one final line drawn between us.
I could step back.
I could say no.
He would let me.
I know that now, and somehow that knowledge reassures me. It also makes it hotter.
“Yes,” I say.
His grip tightens.
“Say it again.”
I lift my chin, though my voice is not as steady as I want it to be. “I am certain.”
He takes a step back, and I want to protest, but then he nods at my sweater and says, "Take that off."
My breath hitches.
His tone is not a question. It is an instruction.
And it is the single hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.
My hands shake as I reach for the hem of my sweater. I pull it over my head in one slow movement, my arms lifting, my hair tumbling back down.
I let the sweater drop to the floor.
I am not wearing the simple bra I usually put on in the mornings. After my shower, knowing he was downstairs... knowing what we were going to do tonight... I put on something else.
Lace in a deep wine color.
It is definitely not practical.
It barely covers anything.
His eyes darken as they drop from my face to my breasts. The air in the room cools my skin, and I see the muscles in his throat work as he swallows.
He says nothing.
