The surrender was absolute. The kiss deepened, all lingering questions burned away by a sudden, desperate heat. The rain against the glass was a distant drumbeat to the thunder of his heart in his chest. He was breaking every rule he'd ever set, and he found he no longer cared.
His mouth left hers, trailing fire along her jaw, and she arched her head back, giving him access. He didn't hesitate. He dipped to the soft, vulnerable pulse point of her throat, inhaling the scent of her—something clean and warm, like soap and sudden fear. A small sound, a gasp that was half-surrender, half-plea, vibrated against his lips.
That sound undid him.
His hands slid from her face, down her arms, to span her waist, his thumbs brushing the swell of her hips. He felt the delicate shape of her, and a raw, possessive hunger surged through him. He was a man starved, and she was the first real thing he'd tasted in years.
"Scarlett," he murmured, his voice thick, his lips still moving against her skin. He had to know. "Has anyone... touched you like this?"
He felt her tremble, her fingers tightening in his hair. For a second, she said nothing, and he steeled himself for the answer. But then she shook her head, a small, jerky movement.
"No," she breathed, her voice so quiet he almost missed it. "I... I was always waiting for you, Nicolas."
Her words hit him like a physical blow. Waiting for him. A raw, possessive growl rumbled deep in his chest. That innocence, that blind trust in him—a man built from shadows and sin—made him feel utterly feral.
He crashed his mouth back to her neck, claiming the skin he'd just kissed, and his hands moved with a new, urgent roughness. He fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, his fingers clumsy with need. The fabric parted.
Cool air hit her skin. She shivered, her eyes wide and dark in the dim light, her hands clutching his shoulders. She was so open, so vulnerable.
That look—that mix of trust and hesitant fear—shattered the last of his restraint. He didn't rip the shirt off. Instead, he bent his head, his lips pressing a hot, reverent kiss to the simple lace of her bra, directly over the frantic beat of her heart.
She cried out, a soft, sharp gasp.
He had to have her. Not here, not on the couch in the half-light.
Without a word, he hooked an arm under her knees and lifted her. Her arms instantly wrapped around his neck, her face burying against his shoulder as he carried her from the living room. The bedroom was darker, the rain a heavier sound here. He laid her on the bed—gently, as if she were made of glass, but his eyes were pure fire.
He followed her down, caging her in with his body, one hand on either side of her head. He lowered his head again, tracing the upper swell of her breast with his nose, his lips. His teeth grazed the lace edge of her bra.
"Nicolas…" she gasped, her back arching slightly off the mattress
That sound. He wanted to drown in that sound. His hand moved from beside her head, sliding down her ribs, his fingers finding the clasp at her back.
BZZZT.
A harsh vibration against his hip.
He growled, ignoring it, his fingers working at the delicate hook.
BZZZT. BZZZT.
It was insistent. A cold flash of irritation cut through the haze. With a muttered curse, he pulled the phone from his pocket, ready to hurl it against the wall. The screen glowed, illuminating his face with a cold, blue light.
MATTEO.
He was going to kill him. He thumbed the "ignore" button, the moment already fractured.
"Nicolas," Scarlett whispered, her hand finding his arm. Her voice was breathless but steady. "It might be important."
He squeezed his eyes shut. She was right. She was always the voice of reason.
With a snarl, he rolled off her, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her. He thumbed the screen.
"This had better be life or death, Matteo," he snapped, his voice a cold whipcrack of fury.
There was a frantic tumbling of words on the other end. Nicolas listened, his entire body going utterly still. The heat from moments ago evaporated, replaced by an arctic chill.
"Moretti?" he said, his voice dropping. "With the Mengs? Where."
He listened again, his jaw tight. Scarlett sat up behind him, pulling the edges of her shirt together.
"How long ago?"
…
"Send me the location. I'm on my way."
He hung up, not moving for a full second. The man who had kissed her, the man who had been undone by her confession, was gone. When he finally stood and turned to face her, his eyes were the flat, dangerous gray of a winter storm.
"Get dressed," he said, his voice devoid of all the heat from moments before. "They found Moretti. He's meeting Alisa Meng's brother. Now."