Page 94 of I'm sorry, Princess
Why the fuck is she so beautiful?
Why does she look broken?
Why do I want to destroy anyone who had anything to do with it?
I pull her closer, pressing her against me, and the intoxicating scent of vanilla floods my senses. Fuck. Thiswoman is dangerous. She’s addictive in a way I can’t fucking explain, and the worst part? I don’t even care.
I could hold her like this for ages. I would hold her like this for ages. And I wouldn’t get bored. Not even for a second.
"Is that so?" I murmur against her ear, my lips brushing against her soft skin.
She shivers.
Even with her heels, she barely reaches my chest, the height difference almost laughable. But there’s nothing funny about this. Nothing amusing about the way this tiny, delicate woman has me fucking folding without even trying.
My fingers ghost over the exposed skin of her back, slow and deliberate, memorizing every inch, every curve. Her hair is impossibly soft, her body warm, fitting against mine like she was fucking made for me. Everything about her is perfect, and it makes my head fucking hurt.
"Yes," she finally breathes, her voice barely a whisper.
She probably didn’t even mean for me to hear it. But I do.
And it doesn’t fucking matter. Because right now, she’s in my arms, dancing with me like she belongs there.
And she does.
I ignore her little lie and let my fingers trail lower, feeling her body tremble under my touch. Then, I hear it.
A tiny, barely-there whimper.
Fuck.
My grip tightens.
She’s mine. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
The song ends, and she tries to pull away. Not happening.
I tighten my grip around her waist, holding her in place. "One more dance," I say, my thumb brushing against her cheek, my eyes fixated on her lips.
Fuck, those fucking lips.
"I meant it when I said I don’t want you around me, Lorenzo." Her voice is softer this time, but the way she looks at me? She’s trying to convince herself more than she’s trying to convince me.
I smirk. Liar.
"You’re not a good sport," she adds, her nose scrunching slightly in frustration.
I push a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Do I look like fucking cricket, beautiful?’ I tease, watching the annoyance flash in her eyes.
British girls and their expressions. Fucking adorable.
"You know what I meant," she huffs, clearly unimpressed with my joke. "You’re not a good person."
That almost makes me laugh. Not a good person? No shit.
"I might not be," I murmur, my voice dropping lower, just for her. "But I take very good care of your sweet little pu—"
"Lorenzo!" She jumps, eyes wide, face turning a pretty shade of pink.
