Page 17 of His Nephew's Ex
“I want you to stop lying to yourself.” His hands come up to brace against the bar on either side of me, caging me between solid muscle and wood. “I want you to admit that you feel this thing between us, this connection that has nothing to do with logic or safety or smart choices. The attraction, if you will.”
“Feeling something doesn’t mean acting on it.” My voice is barely above a whisper, betraying how much his proximity affects me.
“Doesn’t it?” His face is inches from mine now, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something dark and expensive that makes my head spin. “When was the last time you wanted something just for the sake of wanting it?”
Never. The honest answer is never, because wanting things has always been a luxury I couldn’t afford. But I can’t tell himthat, can’t reveal how his question cuts straight to the heart of everything I’ve denied myself.
“This isn’t about want,” I protest weakly.
“Isn’t it?” His thumb traces the rapid pulse in my throat with feather-light precision. “Then why is your heart racing? Why are you looking at my mouth like you’re remembering exactly how it tastes?”
Because I am remembering, God help me. And the memory is driving me slowly insane with a need I don’t understand and can’t control.
“You’re twenty years older than me,” I say desperately, grasping for reasons to maintain distance. “You’re dangerous. You’re—”
“I’m the man who’s been haunting your dreams,” he finishes, and his arrogance would be infuriating if it weren’t so accurate. “Age is just a number,stellina. It comes with experience that will make you squirm. And danger...” His smile is sharp, predatory. “Danger makes everything more interesting.”
“I don’t want interesting.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “I want safe. Predictable. Normal.”
“No, you don’t.” His voice drops to that whisper that makes my toes curl in my boots. “If you wanted safe, you wouldn’t have walked into my office ten days ago. You wouldn’t have kissed me back like you were starving for my touch.”
The memory of that kiss crashes over me like a tidal wave, making my knees weak with remembered pleasure. I did kiss him back, desperately, hungrily, like I’d been waiting my entire life for the taste of his mouth.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I whisper, but we both know I’m lying.
“Doesn’t it?” His other hand comes up to cup my face, tilting my chin until I’m forced to meet his intense stare. “Then prove it.”
“Prove what?”
“That you feel nothing when I touch you.” His thumb strokes across my lower lip with devastating gentleness. “Kiss me, and if you can walk away afterward, I’ll never bother you again.”
The challenge hangs between us like a loaded weapon from a fucking Russian roulette. He’s calling my bluff, daring me to test the connection that’s been crackling between us like live wire.
I should refuse. Should step away from his intoxicating proximity and demand that he leave my bar. Should remember that he’s everything I should fear, everything smart women avoid. Instead, I find myself rising on my tiptoes, closing the distance between us with trembling determination.
When our mouths meet, it’s with the force of a collision. Devastating and inescapable. He kisses me like he owns me, his tongue stroking deep while his teeth catch my lip with justenough bite to make me arch into him with a sound I’ve never made before.
He tastes like dark promises, like everything forbidden that I’ve ever craved. When his tongue sweeps past my lips, I moan into his mouth and fist my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between us.
Every rational thought screams that this is wrong, dangerous, catastrophic. But my body betrays every logical argument, arching into him like I was made for this moment, for the devastating expertise of a man who kisses like he conquers.
His fingers twist through my hair with possessive force, tilting my head back to give him deeper access. The kiss turns brutal and all-consuming. His tongue strokes against mine with burning passion that makes my entire body heat up with need and desire I’ve never experienced. Lust—that’s the correct word to describe it, to describe him.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, staring at each other with something that looks like shock. His pupils are dilated, his silver hair mussed from my desperate fingers, and there’s a possessive satisfaction in his expression that makes my stomach clench with anxiety.
Reality washes over me like ice water. What have I done? I’ve just kissed a criminal, a man who operates outside every moral boundary I’ve built my life around. And worse, I enjoyed it. Craved it. Wanted more.
“This too was a mistake,” I breathe, pressing my hands against his chest to create distance. “A huge mistake.”
“Was it?” His voice is rough with desire, and he makes no move to step away. “Because from where I’m standing, it felt like the beginning of something.”
“The beginning of what? My destruction?” I push harder, and this time he allows me to create space between us. “You’re a dangerous man, Simeone. The kind of man who ruins everything he touches.”
“And you’re a woman brave enough to touch me anyway.” His smile is sharp and satisfied, like a cat who’s caught a particularly elusive mouse. “What does that say about you,stellina?”
That I’m an idiot. That I’m self-destructive. That I have terrible judgment and worse impulse control.
“It says I need you to leave,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself like armor. “Now.”
