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They've never faced me.
I step out of the bathroom, still towel-drying my hair. The bedroom is empty.
I sit on the edge of the bed and continue working the towel through my damp strands, squeezing out excess moisture.
I've never used blow dryers or straighteners—too much risk of damage. My mother taught me to care for my hair naturally, using oils and gentle treatments instead of heat. The result is glossy hair that stylists always comment on, but it comes with drawbacks.
I remember catching a terrible flu last winter after leaving my London flat with wet hair during a particularly cold snap. I smile at the memory, though it fades quickly. Those simple days feel like they belong to someone else now.
Water trickles down my neck and I shiver slightly, working the towel more vigorously.
I move to sit in the middle of the bed just as the door suddenly opens. Alessio steps in, his powerful frame filling the space. His eyes immediately find mine, then slide briefly to the exposed shoulder where the t-shirt has slipped down.
I ought to cover my skin but I don't.
And I don't have a clue why.
CHAPTER 12
Istep into the room and freeze. Fuck me.
Melania sits on the bed, working a towel through her wet hair. A stretch of her skin is exposed that looks soft as silk. My shirt swims on her pert frame, making her look more vulnerable and more bewitching at the same time.
Something primal and possessive claws through my chest. The sight of her wearing my clothes sears through me like a cowboy’s brand.Mine.The word pierces my consciousness before I can shut it down.
She looks up, her eyes catching mine. Neither of us moves. Water droplets slide down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of my shirt. I follow their path, imagining where they end up.
Cazzo. What the fuck is wrong with me? Have I forgotten she's Antonio Lombardi's daughter?
But seeing her wrapped in fabric that belongs to me, that must carry my scent, triggers something I've never felt before—a visceral need to keep her this way. In my clothes. In my space. She can't be allowed to wear anything else from now on.
The thought is so ridiculous, so unlike me, that I nearly laugh. But there's nothing funny about the heat coursing through my veins.
Melania clambers off the bed, looking for a spot to hang the towel. My T-shirt clings to the back of her lightly damp body, allowing her ass to show up like the protagonist in this entire fucking room.
My mouth goes dry. The fabric hugs her in ways that make it impossible not to look, not to imagine my hands replacing the cotton.
I clear my throat, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "We need to start."
She turns to me and nods, hanging the towel over a chair back before moving to the bed. She takes the laptop from my hand and settles back against the headboard, bare legs stretched out in front of her.
"I'm going to make some coffee," I say. "Do you need one?"
"I'd love one, yes." She tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear. "If I don't have caffeine soon, I’m likely to fall asleep."
I nod stiffly and turn toward the door, desperate to get away to the sanctuary of the kitchen.
I step into the hallway and pull the door firmly shut behind me. The air is cool and I realize how hot the bedroom has become. Or maybe it's just me burning up from the inside out.
I take the stairs down to the kitchen two at a time, putting distance between myself and the woman who's doing something to me in ways no one ever has before. My body feels like alive wire, electricity running through every muscle, every nerve ending.
I brace my hands against the kitchen counter and drop my head, dragging in deep breaths. This is fucking insane. She's a job. The last woman on earth I should be thinking about this way.
I push off the counter and move to the coffee maker with determined steps. The routine of measuring grounds, filling the water reservoir, and setting up cups gives my hands something to do besides imagining the feel of her skin.
The coffee maker hisses to life and I lean against the counter, waiting. I need to get my shit together before I go back upstairs. This isn't me. I don't lose control. I don't let women affect me this way.
But as the rich aroma of brewing coffee fills the kitchen, all I can think about is how she'll look taking that first sip, the way her lips will part, the moaning sound she might emit—like she made while eating.