Page 57 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

I close the distance, slow enough for her to feel every inch of it, every shift in the air as I move into her space, my hand lifting to cup her face, my thumb settling along her jaw.

Her skin is warm, warmer than I remember. Or maybe I just forgot how it feels.

“Christine…” I breathe her name, close enough that it brushes against her lips, my body crowding hers.

My forehead almost touches hers, my breath mixing with hers.

“Fuck…” My mouth hovers just an inch from hers, close enough to feel the fire in her breath. Close enough to take.

My thumb shifts slightly, my touch sliding just enough to tilt her face, to angle her the way I want, my tongue brushing lightly along the edge of her lower lip.

“No.” Her voice cuts through the haze.

And I stop. Completely.

My eyes lift to hers, searching, not for hesitation, not for confusion, but for clarity.

She’s breathing hard, but she’s certain.

For a second, neither of us moves.

The tension doesn’t disappear. It just… holds.

Then I step back, my hand dropping from her face, the space between us returning just as quickly as I took it.

“Good girl.” I let a small smile pull at my mouth.

She blinks like she needs a second to come back into herself, like whatever just passed between us knocked something loose that she has to quickly gather before it shows.

Her hand lifts first, brushing over her hair, then her neck where I touched her, like she can erase it if she moves fast enough.

“You stay the hell away from me.” Her breathing is still erratic, chest rising a little too quickly.

She straightens fully after a second, shoulders squaring, chin lifting, like she’s rebuilding the wall she almost let slip.

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes, anger, embarrassment, but it’s contained now. Locked down where she needs it to be.

Without looking at me again, she crouches slightly to gather her things, the folder first, papers slipping slightly before she aligns them with more force than necessary. Her bag comesnext, her fingers clipping around the strap like she needs something solid to hold onto.

She takes a breather, simply to reshuffle her emotions. Then she stands again. Composed again, or close enough to it.

“Am I interrupting something?” Atelia’s voice cuts through the room, smooth and unhurried, like she already knows the answer and doesn’t need it confirmed. “I came for a file.”

She doesn’t wait. She steps in anyway.

Her heels mark her entrance before anything else does, her gaze sweeping once, taking in everything.

Christine straightens immediately, faster this time, like she’s grateful for the intrusion even if she won’t admit it. The last trace of what passed between us disappears, her expression resetting into something more distant.

Atelia notices, her eyes lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. The kind of awareness that files things away instead of reacting to them.

“I didn’t realize you were occupied,” she adds lightly, though there’s nothing careless about it.

“I’m not,” I reply, my tone returning to its usual stiffness.

Christine takes the opening.

“Excuse me,” she throws, not directed at either of us.