Page 38 of I'm sorry, Princess

Right. Lorenzo.

I smile back, polite, sweet, mask on. “Thank you,” I murmur, flipping open the file as if his comment is already forgotten. But my stomach twists in knots.

I glance at the clock.

09:59 AM.

Shit.

“I should go,” I say, my voice breezy even though my pulse isn’t. I’m already halfway down the hall before Ian can say anything else, but I catch him in the corner of my eye, still watching me as I leave.

When I get to the room, he’s already there.

Lorenzo.

Leaning back in the chair like he owns the place. Legs parted, relaxed like he’s expecting a lap dance rather than a therapy session. His dark brown hair is a mess, falling over his forehead in a way that shouldn’t look this good, but of course it does. He’s wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt, both hugging his frame like they were made for him, his tattooed arms fully on display.

His eyes, those wicked, unreadable eyes, follow me lazily as I walk in.

The guard gives me a look of disapproval.

Yeah, yeah, I’m late.

I give him a silent apology with my eyes.

“Do you need help with anything?” the guard asks, lingering.

“No, thank you,” I say, forcing a smile. “You can go.”

“I’ll be back in an hour to take him back to his cell. Another guard will be outside.”

And just like that, I’m alone with him.

With Lorenzo Moretti.

The door clicks shut behind the guard, and I feel it, heat prickling along my skin. His eyes haven’t left me for a second, scanning my body like he’s reading my thoughts. Like he knows exactly why I chose this skirt, these heels, this lip gloss.

Gosh, why does he have to be so damn hot?

Since our first encounter, I’ve been walking around like a hormonal teenager, and today is no different. My heart is hammering, my thighs are pressed together again, and all I can think is:

This is going to be a long hour.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low, amused. His eyes trail lazily over my body, and I know he’s staring at my ass, he isn’t even trying to hide it.

I grip my notebook tighter in my lap, flipping it open and pushing his file aside, trying to keep my composure. “I’m five minutes late,” I hiss back, sharper than I intended, but my pulse is already racing and he knows it. He fucking knows it.

His gaze doesn’t move.

Neither does that smirk.

Gosh, that face.

The sharpness of his jaw, the slight stubble shadowing his cheeks, the way his lips curve like he’s already won. His tongue slides slowly against his teeth, and it shouldn’t make my thighs clench, but it does.

And then he stands.

Freaking hell. He’s huge.