Page 193 of Rosetti Family New York
I tilt my head back, letting the water drum on my shoulders. For a moment, the whole world dissolves: just steam, just heat, just that fantasy of Rafaele leaning in.
His words ring through my mind:
“I should’ve helped you the second you walked into my world.”
The water runs down my thighs as I press my hand between them, teasing myself, bringing the idea of him into sharp, hot focus. I imagine him standing by the mirror, watching me. I imagine him angry and hungry, striding across the tiles. The look in his eyes when he reaches me. He’d pin me against the wall, his mouth covering mine until I forgot how to do anything but let him. His hips pressing into me, hard and demanding. His cock.
My hand works faster, more frantic, needy as hell. I can’t remember feeling like this, like I am going to break apart if hedoesn’t touch me. Maybe it is the fog of the room or the silence after Lucas’s grief, but I can’t stop. Don’t want to.
In my mind, his hands are rough, maybe angry, and I want every touch. He’d hold me right against him, exactly where I want to be.
I’m aching for him, pulling him close in my head, and I swear I can feel his teeth at my neck, his hands grounding me. I can almost touch the way his low voice would wrap around me. Feel the heat of him, his mouth on mine. Rough and possessive.
I gasp as the fantasy hits hard, clenching around me, blinding white. It shatters and holds me all at once, a ghost fading in the steam. The water washes the last of it away. I am breathless and empty, Rafaele’s name on my lips.
14
Sloane
Achild’s scream jolts me awake, and I yelp into the ceiling. It takes a second to remember I’m alone, no dog bleeding, no knife glinting, just the distant hum of traffic and my radiator’s soft buzz, like it’s purring. My heart races, tank top damp with sweat. I fling a sweater off the chair and tug it on, waiting for my pulse to settle.
In the kitchen, I burn the toast and overbrew the coffee. Disgusting, but it’ll have to do. I’m in no mood to start from scratch. The radiator hisses, battling the winter chill, and the kettle sends up lazy swirls of steam. It's all the soundtrack to the jumble in my head.
I’m not fixated on Maddy’s murder; I’m determined to solve it. Prove she wasn’t tied up in drugs. I pour coffee, let it scorch my tongue just to feel grounded. I have to talk to Ethan, and Lucas can’t get his act together until next week. That’s too long.
A plastic knife scrapes through butter on my toast—I don’t keep metal ones in the house. I check my phone: wait or act? My thumbs dial out to Lucas.
“Any chance you can meet sooner? It’s important.”
The coffee goes cold in my hand as I stare out the window, waiting.
“Sorry,” he texts back. “Still eating and sleeping and showering and shit.”
Classic Lucas. I’d hassle him, but he’s not ready. I get it.
I pace past piles of papers, case files, and teetering books. A sad, droopy plant in the corner seems to sigh along with me.
My thoughts turn to Rafaele. He’s the one who can really help, and he said he would. Even made me promise not to go without him.
Without giving myself time to think it over, I snatch up my phone. My fingers fly over the screen.
"Need backup. Today?"
The moment I hit send, my phone lights up with Raffaele's name. That was fast.
I pick up, but he speaks before I can say hello.
"No," he says, voice blunt and final.
"Glad to hear from you," I tease, setting down my mug with exaggerated care.
"Sloane," he drawls, heavy and warning. "Not happening."
"But I haven't even told you when or where," I protest, feeling my frustration start to rise.
"Doesn't matter. You can't go alone."
His words come across like orders, each one clipped and uncompromising.
