Page 5 of When She Tempts (The Fallen)
Nothing.
My brother sits down on the bed beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulders, tugging me into his side. “We won’t be apart for long, all right?”
He can’t know that, but I nod anyway. “Yeah.”
“It might be good for you to get some space from this place.”
I drag my gaze around my predominantly pink room. It feels like the inside of a Pepto-Bismol bottle. Pink chair, pink duvet, pink carpet. Even pink walls.
This room screams easy target.
That’s what I am.
Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I slide out from under Dem’s arm and go to grab my small purse. “We shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
My brother watches me, his shoulders slightly slumped. He’s always been there for me, but recently, it’s like I’ve forgotten how to talk to him. He often asks me how I feel, and the question stumps me.
I don’t know.I don’t know.
My bare feet press into the woven runner as we go down the steps. Behind me, Dem is carrying my two big suitcases, while Vale trails him with my backpack. They’ve refused to let me carry anything, as if they think I’ll break under even the smallest bit of weight.
And yes, I do feel fragile, but I’ve survived more in the last two months than what most people do in a lifetime. I don’t want to worry my brother, so I pull my shoulders back and lift my head a little higher.
I just have to keep at it.
One day at a time.
That’s as far as I allow myself to think.
When I reach the final step, my gaze lands on the man waiting for me in the center of the room.
Giorgio Girardi.
My steps slow. When our eyes meet, the all-encompassing numbness recedes for a brief moment, and an electric charge runs down my spine.
He’s so vivid…like a splatter of color against a grayscale canvas.
It must be my hormones. I already know there’s something about this man that taps right into my pituitary gland.
Until I saw him two weeks ago, I was convinced I was asexual. One look at him was enough for me to realize I’mdefinitelynot.
While my friends at school went through their boy-crazy phase, I watched from the sidelines, unable to muster up a single crush. Yes, some of my classmates were objectively good-looking, but I’ve known most of them for years. There was nothing intriguing about them. Nothing that made me want to know them in ways a simple friendship wouldn’t allow.
But when I saw Giorgio, I felt something very different.
He was masculinity personified. Tall, fit, classically attractive. The kind of dark Italian man luxury brands hired to be the face of their expensive cologne. His brown, nearly black hair fell in smooth waves over his head. I had no idea if he spent any time making it look like that, or if he just woke up looking perfect.
I wasveryintrigued by him. For days after his last visit, my mind was filled with ideas I’ve never thought about before.
Like how his big hands would feel on my thighs, or how his lips would fit against mine.
And most importantly, how he’d look with his shirt off.
He has a broad chest, and I’d bet my bank account balance that if I peeled open his dress shirt, I’d find a set of perfect abs.
I realize I’m staring when he says my name and extends a hand. “Martina.”
The sound of my name on his lips sends heat spreading through my chest. I drag my eyes to his face and take the offered hand. “Hi.”
