Page 85 of Wicked Sinner
"No." He steps closer, and his gaze is just as intense as before, but it looks different now. Focused on me, instead of his anger over Isabella. "You said your home."
I let out a sharp breath. "Caesar—we don’t need to discuss semantics. I misspoke?—"
"You were defending this place. Defending me." Another step closer. "You were jealous."
“I was not—” I swallow hard as he looks down at me. “I’m not jealous.” My voice sounds far too weak as I say it. Because I am. I’m jealous of how well-suited she is for him, how beautiful she is, how perfect. And I don’t know why, because I don’t evenwantCaesar. Not for good. Not for anything more than another night. I don’t wantthis—his life, his world, or this marriage.
I don’t. I don’t.
“You were.” He stops close enough to touch, his hand lifting to brush against my cheekbone. A shiver runs down my spine, and I struggle not to lean into the touch, not to let myself think of what else I said to her.
He said I made him come harder than any other woman has.
The truth that I know, absolutely, is that he did that forme. I’ve never felt anything like what he did to me with another man. Never knew it was possible. And now, with the memory so close after that argument and with him standing just as near, his fingers brushing my cheek, it takes everything in me not to give in to what we both want.
"She's beautiful," I admit reluctantly. “She’s perfect for you.” The words feel like they burn my tongue as I say them.
"She's nothing." He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. "She's everything I never wanted in a wife. She’s cold and calculating, and entirely concerned with appearances.”
“She would be better at this than I am.” It feels like someone is squeezing my heart in their fist as I say it, despite all my insistence that I want nothing to do with any of this. I don’t understand why, but I feel my chest ache, feel my pulse race as I say things that taste bitter as they come out. “She’d be a better wife. Arealwife?—”
“I don’t give a fuck about Isabella Torrino. I—” Caesar’s gaze searches mine, wild and hot, and before I can breathe, before I can think of something to say, his palm curls around my face and his mouth comes down onto mine.
He devours me, his kiss hot and hungry and everything I’ve been missing since that night in my garage, and I know I’m lost.
I can’t fight him when he’s kissing me like this.
And maybe I don’t want to.
21
BRIDGET
Caesar kisses me like a starving man, his mouth hungry on mine as he backs me up until I bump into the back of the couch. His hands drop to my hips, sliding up under my loose T-shirt as his tongue slides into my mouth, plundering, taking,demanding.
My entire body feels like it’s on fire. Like I’m going to die if he stops, and maybe like I’m going to die if he doesn’t. I can feel the heat licking through my blood, feel how wet I am already just from the pressure of his mouth on mine, the taste of his tongue.
His hands rove over my still-flat stomach, up over my ribs, to the edge of the soft bralette I’m wearing under the shirt. He growls as he feels the soft weight of my breasts, and I gasp when his palms curve over them, rubbing over my stiffening nipples as I moan and arch into him despite myself.
“You were jealous.” He nips at my lower lip. “You threw her out. And now you’re kissing me back.” His mouth crashes onto mine again, possessive, demanding. “Maybe this isn’t as temporary as you want to think it is,bellissima.”
My blood feels molten, my knees feel weak. I reach up, meaning to push him away, but my hands curl into the frontof his button-down shirt, pulling him closer instead. He’s hard, every inch of him, all rigid muscle and the thick length of his cock pressing against my thigh, and I feel dizzy at the memory of how that felt inside of me.
“Yes.” He growls against my lips, biting at my mouth again, one hand coming up to fist in my hair as he pulls my head sideways and drags his mouth down my throat. He’s rough, insistent, his touches not in the slightest bit careful, but I don’t care.
If he were being gentle, maybe I could stop this. Maybe I could tell him no. But he’s not. He’s demanding everything from me that I’ve been pretending I’m not craving, and my body is answering, screaming that I want this, that I need it.
That it could be just one more night. Casual. Meaningless. That the ring on my finger and the penthouse we’re standing in, and his baby inside of me don’t mean anything.
That we could pretend we’re back in my garage, when we barely knew each other’s names and thought we’d never see each other again.
I’m gasping by the time his mouth reaches my collarbone, fingers tugging at the buttons of his shirt. He lets go of me just long enough to shrug his suit jacket off, letting it fall to the gleaming hardwood floor, and then he’s yanking off my T-shirt, shoving the sides of my bralette down so he can get his hands on my bare breasts.
“Fuck, Bridget—” He moans my name, dropping his head to suck one nipple into his mouth. I cry out at the feeling of his tongue rolling over the stiff peak, the way his lips feel around it, tugging and sucking as my hips arch into his. He’s so fucking hard against me, and I keep yanking at his buttons, wanting him naked. Wanting him bare, too, so I can see all of him again.
It’s unfair, how gorgeous he is. How perfect—all of him, his body, his cock, his skill in bed. It’s unfair that I can’t have this forever, all because he’s something I can’t live with.
That I can’t have a family with.
