Page 57 of Savage Saint
He reaches for the bottle, his fingers brushing mine as he takes it. The casual contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the alcohol. He examines the label for a moment, then looks back at me.
"You have no idea what you're drinking, do you?" He moves closer still.
"Nope," I admit. "Just needed something strong."
"Why?" His question catches me off guard. There's genuine curiosity beneath the word.
I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable with his attention. "Sometimes it's too quiet. In my head. Like I'm waiting for something to happen, but I don't know what."
His expression shifts, softens just slightly. He raises the bottle to his lips, but before drinking, he runs his tongue along the rim where my mouth had been. It's a deliberate move, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he drinks deeply, his throat working as he swallows.
My entire body feels too hot despite the water.
"Maybe what you're waiting for is already happening," he says, handing the bottle back.
I take it, our fingers touching again. This time, his linger. "Maybe."
We're close now, too close. The water laps gently between us, the only sound besides our breathing. His hand moves to my waist beneath the water, and what should feel intrusive feels like something I've been waiting for. His touch is casual but undeniably possessive, his large hand spanning almost half my torso.
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the temperature.
"Cold?" he asks, though we both know I'm not.
"No," I say, my voice embarrassingly husky.
He takes the bottle again, this time keeping his other hand on my waist. "Open your mouth," he commands softly.
I hesitate, not sure where this is going, but too intrigued to stop it. My lips remain closed, my breath catching as I watch him through lowered lashes.
The hand on my hip moves up my body slowly to cup my jaw, his thumb pressed against my chin. The touch is firm but gentle, a contradiction like everything else about Angelo. His fingers apply the slightest pressure, coaxing my mouth open with careful dominance that makes my whole body light up. I give in, allowing my lips to part under his touch. He takes another swig from the bottle, but doesn't swallow. Instead, he brings his face close to mine, his dark eyes holding me captive as he lets the amber liquid pour from his mouth into mine. The intimacy of the act, his complete control of the moment, has my senses in overdrive, my body aching to feel more than just his fingers against my skin, sends a shiver of desire through my core.
The scotch tastes different now, warmer, more intimate. I swallow, feeling dizzy in a way that's only partly from the alcohol. His face stays close, our breaths mingling. His eyes drop to my lips. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
I can feel the hard press of his erection against my shorts under the water, and I know he must feel how my body is responding to him. My eyes grow heavy, the combination of alcohol and desire making everything seem dreamlike.
His hand is still on my jaw, his thumb now stroking my lower lip. "I want to taste you," he says, voice rough. "Not just the scotch. You."
His face lowers toward mine, and I tilt my head up, anticipating the press of his lips, wanting it more than my next breath. But at the last possible moment, he stops, pulling back just enough that our lips don't touch.
"Go inside," he says, his voice tight with restraint. "Now. Before I do something we'll both regret."
His hand falls away from my face, leaving me cold despite the heated pool. He steps back, putting distance between us, but I can still see the naked want in his eyes, matching the ache building inside me.
"What if I don't want to go?" I challenge, though my voice shakes slightly.
His expression darkens. "Trust me, Butterfly. You don't want to find out."
20
KASIA
My head is killing me. Every step I take against the hard floor of Angelo's kitchen as I pace around sounds too loud, intensifying the throbbing in my skull. I press my fingers against my temples, trying to ease the relentless pounding, but it's no use. The early morning light streaming through the windows feels like needles in my eyes.
My entire body hums with a restless energy that has nothing to do with the hangover and everything to do withhim. The memory of last night by the pool refuses to fade. The heat of Angelo's body so close to mine, the intoxicating mix of chlorine and his cologne, the way his eyes had darkened just before he'd leaned in. My lips still tingle with the phantom sensation of his breath, and I have to consciously stop myself from touching them.
My hands tremble as I reach up to grab a glass from the cabinet, nearly dropping it onto the marble countertop. I stare at the options before me. The tap with its promise of cool, hangover-soothing water, or the half-empty bottle of whiskey that might help silence the war raging in my head between what my body wants and self-preservation. Between staying andrunning. Running should be my go-to solution, but something makes me hesitate. He's dangerous.Stayingis dangerous. It feels like I'm standing on the edge of a precipice, and I can't tell if I want to step back or let myself fall.
A sharp knock at the door cuts through the empty kitchen, making me jump and slosh water over my hand. I freeze, glass suspended midair, my heartbeat drumming a warning in my ears. The knock comes again, more insistent this time.
