Page 20 of Savage Vows

“And your mother?” he asks.

I bring my drink closer to me, as if it might ward off my sudden melancholy. I’ve been told that grief lessens over time. Mine has changed, but it’s still a sharp, aching pain. “I lost her when I was young.”

“I can’t imagine.”

Thankfully he doesn’t offer platitudes.

Because we’ve wandered into territory where I feel vulnerable, I’m uncomfortable. Hurriedly I finish my drink and slide the mug onto the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m tired.”

“You’ve had quite the day.”

Thanks to him. Not responding, I stand.

“I’ll walk you upstairs.”

“No need.” I shake my head. “Enjoy the fire.”

But he’s already on his feet. Once again, my arguments don’t matter much to him.

Once we’re inside, he carries the mugs to the sink while I kick off the flip-flops and bend to pick them up.

“You know, I bought you a pair of casual slip-on shoes.”

“I …” Never even looked.“That was thoughtful.”

He follows me upstairs, and the security guard moves a discreet distance away.

“We’ve arrived safely,” I tell him, hoping he’ll take the hint to leave. But he doesn’t.

The atmosphere around us shifts, sizzling with tension.

I need to run. But I don’t.

Every nerve ending in my body seems aware of how close he is, how little space separates us.

“You’re very beautiful.”

The tenderness in his voice makes my heart stutter. His eyes are dark with desire, and he leans in a little. I back up against the door, and he takes my shoulders in his hands, possessively, but with tenderness he hadn’t shown earlier when I was hurrying into the convenience store.

“My Alessia.”

“I’m not yours and never will be,” I protest, but my voice trembles.

He raises a hand to gently tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. The touch sends shivers down my spine, and I have to fight not to lean into it. “No?” he asks, the word barely a whisper, his deep voice rough with emotion.

“No,” I insist in a whisper.

“So you don’t want this?” He traces his thumb across my lower lip, so gently that I forget how to breathe.

“No.”Despite my mind’s screaming protests, my body responds to him. My mouth opens just a little, and his pupils dilate in response.

“Or this?”

His kiss, when it comes, is surprisingly soft—a caress rather than a demand. My brain wars with my feminine responses.

The man who has vowed to marry me tastes of chocolate and fine whiskey: sweet, rich, and dangerously addictive. I place my palm on his chest, intending to push him away; instead I’m captivated by the steady thrum of his heartbeat, a total contradiction to the way mine is racing out of control.

His lips move against mine, unexpectedly gentle, an exploration, as if he’s memorizing the feel of me. He’s patient, his breath mingling with mine, waiting for a response I’m fighting hard not to give. But the warmth of him, his tenderness, is a sensation I can’t resist. Despite my efforts, I begin to lean into him.

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