Page 24 of His Savage Ruin

"Good morning,principessa," he says, making no move to cover himself. "Sleep well?"

I try to look away, try to summon some shred of dignity or outrage, but my treacherous eyes keep returning to him. To the way water droplets cling to his chest, to the confident way he moves, to details I shouldn't be noticing.

"This is..." I start, then stop, my voice failing me completely.

"This is what?" He reaches for a pair of boxers from his dresser, but he's taking his time about it, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

"Inappropriate," I manage, but the word comes out breathless and weak.

"Is it?" He pulls on the boxers with maddening slowness. "This is my room, in my house. If anyone should be uncomfortable, it's me."

"I didn't ask to be here."

"No," he agrees, selecting a shirt from his closet. "But you are here. And you're looking at me like..."

He trails off, but the implication hangs in the air between us.

"Like what?"

"Like you're curious about more than just the view."

The observation hits because it's absolutely true. I am curious. Desperately, dangerously curious about things I've never wanted to explore before.

"I'm not," I lie, but my voice shakes.

"Aren't you?" He approaches the bed slowly, a hunter stalking prey. "There's nothing wrong with attraction, Alessia. It's perfectly natural."

"You're delusional."

"Perhaps." He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that I can smell his soap, his skin, the indefinable scent that's purely him. "But your reactions suggest otherwise."

He reaches out as if to touch my throat, and I lean back instinctively.

"Don't."

"Don't what? Don't notice the way you respond to me? Don't acknowledge what's happening?"

"Nothing is happening."

"Something is happening," he corrects gently. "The question is whether you're ready to admit it."

I stare at his hand, at the scarred knuckles and long fingers that I know are capable of incredible violence and unexpected gentleness. What would it feel like to have those hands on my skin? To be touched with desire?

The thought terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.

"I'm not ready for anything," I say firmly, my voice not betraying me. Thank God!

"No?" He leans closer, and I can see the flecks in his eyes, can feel his breath against my lips. "Then why are you leaning toward me?"

I realize with shock that I am leaning toward him, drawn by forces I don't understand and can't control. His eyes drop to my lips, and I know he's going to kiss me, know that I'm going to let him, know that crossing this line will change everything between us.

A sharp knock at the door breaks the spell.

We spring apart, the moment shattered by reality. Matteo's expression shifts from heated interest to cold authority in seconds.

"Don Romano?" A male voice calls through the door. "I apologize for the interruption, but you asked to be informed immediately when?—"

"Five minutes," Matteo calls back, his voice deadly calm.