Page 98 of Sinful Lies

A knock on the door broke the thoughts swirling in my mind.

I put the cookie down and scrambled to pull the covers up to my chin, pretending to be asleep, hoping my terrible acting skills would save me. My heart was practically trying to escape my throat.

The door creaked open, footsteps drawing closer. The bed dipped next to me, and I tensed, hoping he’d just leave.

But no, of course not.

A warm hand brushed my cheek, sending a shiver down my legs.

“Jade?”

I stayed perfectly still, eyes closed, trying to make my breathing sound like a sleep-deprived dying animal.

“I know you’re awake, Jade,” he said, as I felt the cool touch of his finger at the corner of my lips. “You’ve got a bit of frosting right here.”

Asshole.

I opened my mouth and bit his finger, hard.

He laughed, the sound dark and amused, and it made my pulse skip a beat.

I finally opened my eyes.

To say he looked like shit was an understatement. His face was a mess of cuts and bruises; his eyes were so swollen I wasn’tsure how he could even see. And his hair—well, let’s just say he looked like he’d been dragged through a storm.

There was a roughness to him now, like he’d been through hell and had barely made it out alive. But despite all of that… he was still so freaking handsome, heat bloomed low in my stomach.

I thought I might pass out again.

Six years of working with him, and I had never fully admitted what he was—a walking, breathing, hot magnet.

And now? I couldn’t look away, and honestly, I didn’t even want to.

“There you are,” he said, his voice rough and gravelly, but there was something soft in his eyes—relief, maybe.

Or maybe I was just imagining it.

I swallowed hard. “What happened?”

He sighed and brushed his hand over my cheek. “How are you feeling?”

I straightened up. “Amazing. I could run a marathon.”

His lips twisted. “Little liar,” he murmured, his voice rough.

Butterflies spread between my legs.

“What happened to your face, Lazzio?” I asked, my hands reaching up to grab his face, my fingers grazing over the cuts. “You look?—”

“Magnificent?” he interrupted, a cocky grin pulling at his lips.

I rolled my eyes, trying to hold back a smile. “You look like shit.”

He chuckled darkly. “Ah, my mistake, Miss Whitenhouse.”

I reached for my orange juice, the glass cool in my hand, more to distract myself than to actually drink it. His gaze hadn’t left me, fixed and heavy, like he was studying me.

I turned my head toward the window, needing to escape that stare.

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