Page 80 of Brutal Heir

“Nothing…”

He shifts beside me again, and this time, I feel it. The reason he’s smiling like the cat who ate the canary. The eejit’s cock is as stiff as a whiskey from old O’Connell’s Pub.

“Alessandro…” I growl.

“What?” He’s the picture of innocence, a smile gracing his lips that would have Sister Agnes on her knees. He leans in closer, that musky amber scent mixing with the warm whiskey on his breath. An unexpected rush of heat surges from the tips of my toes and settles in my core. I squeeze my thighs together to banish the blossoming ache.

Get a hold of yourself, Rory.

His fingers still twist my hair, his gaze locked on the ruby strands. Then he sweeps the errant locks behind my ear and his hand lingers at my cheek for an impossibly long moment.

His eyes lock on mine, a storm of emotion reflected in the icy blue and turbulent midnight of his irises.

The air catches in my throat as the hand attached to the arm across my torso begins to draw lazy circles on the sliver of exposed flesh between my scrubs. The ache between my legs intensifies, and my eyes chase to his lips. They’re a perfect bow, untouched by the fire on the right side. Heated memories of the kiss surge to the forefront of my mind.

The desperation.

The clash of tongues and teeth.

The power of all the things left unsaid.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, drawing my gaze back to his eyes.

“For what?” My words are nothing but a serrated whisper.

“For wanting what I don’t deserve.”

“Don’t say that…”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

“That’s not why this can’t happen.” I barely breathe as I force the words out, and my hand climbs to the right side of his face. He tenses, his entire body as taut as a bowstring. Gently, I stroke the soft, raw, pink skin with the lightest touch of my thumb. “Scars or not, Alessandro Rossi, you are without question one of the most breathtaking men I’ve ever seen, maybe even more so because of them.”

His breath hitches, eyes flaring as if my words struck some raw, unprotected nerve deep beneath the surface. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The only sound between us is the quiet rhythm of our breathing, syncing like some primal beat neither of us dares admit.

“Then why?”

I don’t answer, all the words stuck at the back of my throat. How can I explain all the reasons I’m terrified to fall for him without unraveling the dark, twisted past I’ve fought so hard to keep buried?

Then his forehead drops to mine.

“I want you, Rory,” he murmurs, so low it’s barely a sound. More like a confession. “Not just like this. Not just for a night. I want all of it. But I don’t know how... not without ruining it.”

I swallow thickly, the heat between us spiraling. He’s shite-faced, I remind myself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Still, a thousand replies remain perched at the tip of my tongue, but I don’t dare utter a single, traitorous one.

His lips are a whisper from mine. One shift. One slip. That’s all it would take.

But instead of pressing forward, he pulls back just an inch, eyes searching mine, like he’s asking permission. My hand is still on his cheek, my body strung tight and every nerve on fire.

I shouldn’t. God help me, I shouldn’t. But his eyes are burning into mine, and all I can think is if I don’t kiss him right now, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

So I do the only reckless, right thing I can.

I close the space between us.

My lips brush his, and the kiss is slow this time. Deep. Lingering. Less crazed collision and more earnest exploration. A soft sweep of lips, a shared breath, a trembling question with no answers. His hand curls behind my neck, pulling me closer until I’m tucked against the wall of his chest, heart to heart, breath to breath.

It’s everything. Too much. Not enough.