Page 201 of Claimed At First Sight

It actually happened.

All of it.

I kissed him. I wrapped myself around him, grabbed his ass, and begged him to touch me.

Oh God!

Sleepy Mia must consider inhibitions and dignity entirely optional.

I grab a pillow and groan into it.

Maybe it would have been better if the tower had collapsed during the storm. At least then I wouldn’t have to face Maximo again.

Still, even my humiliation can’t smother the warmth curling low in my stomach. Because no matter how brazen I was, it felt damn good.

Better than good.

Even now, my body remembers the pressure of him against me and the commanding rasp of his voice telling me to take what I needed.

The lingering sensitivity between my thighs doesn’t make me regret it. It makes me wonder what would have happened if he’d given me what I begged for.

Which is clearly a catastrophic failure of judgment.

I lower my hands and glance around the apartment again.

Where is he?

I’m beyond relieved he wasn’t here to watch me wake and piece everything together. He would have enjoyed every second of my humiliation, probably stretched out beside me wearing that insufferably satisfied expression while waiting for me to admit I remember.

Perhaps we can pretend it never happened?

Who am I kidding?

Maximo will never let me forget this, not when it supports his campaign to make me surrender to his marriage plans. As far as he’s concerned, one moment of poor self-control probably constitutes a legally binding engagement.

I strain my ears for footsteps or the low murmur of his voice, but I hear nothing beyond the faint crackle of the fire.

He hasn’t left, has he?

The possibility unsettles me more than it should. Only because I need to know where he is so I can avoid him on the way to the shower.

Dropping the blankets and the pillow, I climb to my feet and glance toward the hallway.

Ideally, I’ll spot Chicago’s most arrogant Mafia Don from a safe distance and disappear into the nearest bathroom before he notices I’m awake.

I creep into the hallway, keeping my back close to the wall. I place each foot carefully in front of the other, trying not to make any noise.

Honestly, I’m not sure why. The floors are covered by thick rugs, and I’m wearing socks, but isn’t that what spies do when infiltrating enemy territory?

Maximo’s penthouse definitely qualifies as that.

Away from the warm cream tones of the living room, his private domain is more masculine and restrained. Dark wood accents break up the pale walls, along with enormous black-and-white photographs of Chicago and the occasional piece of artwork that probably costs an insane amount of money.

Everything is immaculate, masculine, and controlled, without so much as a carelessly placed book to suggest an actual human being has ever lived here.

I pause at the first corner and lean forward just enough to peer around it.

Empty.