Page 234 of Ruin Me Gently

Then she giggled, soft and breathy, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “Shit. That’s not what I meant.” She paused, then wiggled her eyebrows. “Although…”

I huffed out a low laugh, shaking my head.

Gesù Cristo.

“If you want to say ‘big guy,’” I muttered. “It’s‘ragazzo grande.’”

She hummed, testing the words in her head.

“Dormi, tesoro,” I whispered, brushing my lips against her forehead one last time. “Sleep, sweetheart.”

Her soft laughter chased after me like an echo as I slipped out of the bedroom.

She’d just called me a fucking horse. A large horse, specifically. And I’d never wanted to kiss her more.

I shook my head, stepping into the aftermath of the bomb explosion in my kitchen, but my mind stayed on her. On that sleepy grin. The way she’d fumbled through the words.

She’d tried to learn Italian. Forme.Sure, she’d used it to call me hot and strong. And sure, she’d absolutely butchered it. Butstill.I was so damn lucky.

I gripped the edge of the counter, staring down at the mess. I’d always hated mess.

I liked order. Structure. Things in their place.

But this? I didn’t mind this. Not when it was her.

She did this. She’d been there, in my space, living in it, filling it with laughter and warmth and terrible Italian pronunciation.

And shit, I wanted that. I wantedthis.This life.

I wanted to walk into this exact mess every damn day.

I wanted to find her asleep on my couch again, wearing my suit, curled up in my home like she belonged there.

Because she did.

More than anything in my life, I wanted this. I wantedher.

I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and turned back toward the bedroom, jaw tight, chest burning.

I’d take her the water. Then, I was going to get back to finding him. I was going to end this. So she could keep making messes in our penthouse every damn day for the rest of our lives.

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

Ireached across thebed. Cold. Empty.

Huh.

I tried again, just in case my first attempt was a fluke of physics.

Nope. Still empty.

I cracked one eye open, hoping that maybe he was just in the shower. Maybe he’d just stepped out.

But then my gaze landed on the bottle of water and painkillers that had been left for me on the nightstand.

Shit. I didn’t even get a glimpse of him this morning.

It was thoughtful. It was practical. But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t his arm slung over me, trapping me against him. It wasn’t morning warmth and sleepy kisses. It wasn’t his deep, rough voice murmuring,‘Stay. Five more minutes.’

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