Page 19 of Indigo Deception
Everything I've worked for depends on my focus…on remembering that he's Angelo Bellanti, the criminal, the financial mastermind who's laundered billions in blood money.
Not the man who helps children cut their pasta. Not the man whose touch makes me forget years of training in self-control.
Not the man I can't stop thinking about, no matter how hard I try.
"Say it," he demands, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "Say there's nothing between us, and I'll walk away. You'll never have to deal with this—with me—again. That door will be closed.”
“What I feel doesn't matter," I say, and the words taste like ash. "It can't matter."
"Why?" His voice drops lower, vibrating through the scant inches between us. His eyes—a forest of green with flecks of gold I've never noticed before—search mine relentlessly. "Give me one good reason this can't matter."
The reason is that I'm lying to you.Because my real name isn't Sarah Bennett. Because after all of this, I'll be testifying against your family in a federal courtroom.
A dozen damning truths crowd my throat, but none make it past my lips.
"Because," I finally manage, "we both know this ends badly."
Angelo's laugh is sharp and without humor. "Life ends badly, Sarah. We all die. It's what we do before that matters."
I shake my head slightly, my tongue darting out. His heated gaze falls on my mouth.
I take a step back, my back hitting the bookshelf. There's nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide—from him or from myself.
"Angelo, we can't—" My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, breathless and uncertain.
We can't what?" He steps closer. "Can't acknowledge that every time we're in the same room, the air gets so thick I can barely breathe? Can't admit that you've been running from this—from us—since that kiss? "
His cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more primal—envelopes me. I inhale sharply, trying to clear my head, but it only fills my lungs with more of him.
"There is no us," I insist, pressing my palms flat against the shelf to stop them from reaching for him. "I work for you. This isn't a line that we should cross.”
“The line was fucking crossed when I kissed you." His eyes darken, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of green remains."Stop fighting it."
"This is a mistake," I whisper, even as my body betrays me, leaning toward him.
"Then make it mine," he growls, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss isn't gentle like our first. It's hungry, desperate—weeks of tension exploding between us. His hands bracket my face, thumbs pressing into my jawline as my fingers curl into the expensive fabric of his shirt.
I should stop this. My career, my integrity, everything I've built is balanced on a knife's edge. But when his teeth graze my lower lip, rational thought flees.
He presses closer, one thigh sliding between mine, and a sound escapes me—half protest, half surrender.
"Not here," I say, breaking away. "Your family—"
"Bathroom," he growls against my neck, sending shivers down my spine. "End of the hall."
We separate like guilty teenagers, straightening clothes, checking the corridor before I slip out. The ten steps to the bathroom door feel like walking through quicksand, my legs heavy with both want and dread.
The moment the heavy oak door closes behind us, Angelo's on me again, kissing me hard. The marble countertop is cold against my bare thighs as he lifts me onto it, pushing my skirt up around my waist. His eyes never leave mine as he drops to his knees, hands spreading my legs wider.
"Angelo," I protest weakly, too aware of the garden right outside the window. "We shouldn't—"
"You keep saying that," he interrupts, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh that makes me shiver. "Yet here we are."
When his mouth finds my center, my head falls back against the mirror with a dull thud. My hand flies to my mouth, stifling the moan that threatens to escape as his tongue works against me.
“Oh God,” I moan, clutching his hair.
