Page 41 of Nocturne

She goes very still, her face unreadable. For a moment, I think I’ve pushed too far.

Then she says, quietly, “And do you see me?”

The question hangs between us, heavy with unspoken things. The strange, electric connection that sparked the moment we met. The way she seems to haunt my thoughts even when she’s not around. The hunger that rises in me whenever we’re close. The way her presence makes me want to unleash every lewd, crude thought and action from deep inside me, turn me into more animal than man.

“I’m starting to,” I admit, my voice coming out hoarse. “But there’s still a lot in shadow.”

She takes a sip of her coffee, eyes never leaving mine. “Maybe that’s where I prefer to stay.”

“Why? What are you hiding from, Lena? I don’t mean the Europeans. And don’t tell me it’s Marco or Mickey. Those boys don’t scare you the way they should.”

She bites her lip for a moment in thought. “Who says I’m hiding?”

“Your eyes do.” My words come out soft. “They’re always scanning exits, tracking movements, assessing threats. That’s not the habit of someone who feels safe in the world.”

Something flickers across her face—surprise, perhaps, at being so thoroughly read. “Do you think any girl in this city should feel safe?”

“Maybe the ones who know the right people.”

“And are you the right people?”

“I can be. For you.”

She mulls that over, licking her lips, the action causing heat to pulse through my cock. “You notice a lot.”

I splay my hands. “It’s what I do.”

“Is that all it is? Professional interest?”

The air between us thickens with unspoken possibility. I’m suddenly, acutely aware of the curve of her lips, the pulse point visible at the base of her throat, the way her pupils have dilated slightly. I’ve known this woman for a week, yet I can’t rememberthe last time I wanted someone with such intensity. The kind that blinds and binds you, that leaves a mark.

This could be my downfall.

“No,” I admit, my voice rougher than I intended. “That’s not all it is.”

She holds my gaze, something inviting in her eyes, and that itself is dangerous. “Then what is it?”

How do I explain this ache? This pull toward her that defies reason? What would she think if I told her how I’ve jacked off to her, imagining what it would be like to grip the creamy white skin around her neck, to thrust my cock down her throat, watch her suck me dry?

Would she recoil? Would I offend her ladylike sensibilities?

Or am I right in thinking she wants it too. Wants me to take her in whatever way I can, as rough as I can be.

“I’m not sure,” I say instead. “But I intend to find out.”

A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “Always the investigator.”

“Old habits.”

We finish our coffee in charged silence, the air between us electric with things unsaid. When I finally pay the bill and we head back to the car, my hand finds the small of her back—a gesture both protective and possessive, and utterly natural.

The drive to her apartment passes with the same tension, both of us acutely aware of the other, of the narrowing space between professional collaboration and something far more complicated.

A space I’m more than willing to step into.

When we pull up outside the Alto Nido, I kill the engine but keep my hands on the steering wheel, knuckles white with the effort of restraint.

“You don’t have to go back in there,” I say. “Not after what happened last night.”

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