He settles deeper into the cushions. “So, what happened tonight?”
It’s like he read my mind. I take a breath, setting my resolve. I can’t tell him. As long as he thinks Brett is still an obstacle between us, I’m safe.
He leans closer. “Talk to me, Hilary.”
“I broke up with my boyfriend.” Damn. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut around him?
He stiffens and something in his gaze shifts . . . becomes more hooded. He lowers my hand and reaches for his glass, taking a sip of wine.
I stand and move to the window, looking out over Perry Street. It’s got to be almost one, but there are still people milling about. A group of guys passes two girls on the sidewalk across the street and both groups slow down and check each other out—the traditional NYC mating dance. Alessandro comes up behind me. I can feel the heat of his body, but he’s not touching me. I turn to face him, and he’s so close.
I feel tears rise and pinch my face against them. “It’s just so stupid. I mean, it’s not like I loved him or anything. I didn’t really even like him most of the time. But it was comfortable . . . easy.”
He hesitates before reaching for me and pulling me to his shoulder. I try to find the strength to push him away. But I can’t. I’ve wanted to be right here, in Alessandro’s arms, for so long. I dreamed of these arms after he left. I dreamed he’d come back and hold me and everything would be okay.
And now he’s here.
As the tears start, I suddenly know this is about more than just Brett. It’s about everything. It’s about Mom and Mallory. It’s about butterflies in the park. And it’s about Lorenzo and Alessandro and everything that came after. It’s about all the pain and loneliness that I’ve stuffed down and denied all my life because it made me weak.
Alessandro’s breath in my hair is warm and soothing. He doesn’t say a word, but he hugs me close and kisses the top of my head, stroking my hair and rocking me gently. When I’ve cried myself out, I peel myself off his chest and look up at him.
“Better?” he asks, brushing the tears off my cheek with the pad of his thumb.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
His thumb slows in its movement across my cheek, then traces my lips as his warm gaze locks on mine. He’s so close. My heart pounds at the image of closing the short distance between us and pressing my lips against his. There’s a long second where neither of us moves, and I’m sure I see the same thought flare in his eyes.
“You should stay here tonight,” he finally says, releasing me from both his grasp and his gaze. “It’s too late for you to be wandering around the city, and I doubt you’re planning on returning to your apartment tonight?”
I blow out the breath I was holding. “Try never again.”
“I can sleep here,” he says, motioning to the couch. “You can have the bed.”
“What a gentleman,” I say with a sniffle and a smirk.
He smiles. “Anything for a damsel in distress.”
I follow him to the bathroom. He pulls a spare toothbrush, still in its package, out of his drawer and lays it on the counter. “If you want to shower, be my guest. There are fresh towels here,” he says, opening the cabinet. He leads me to the alcove where his double bed is and I feel an ache in my belly thinking about sleeping in it, surrounded by his spicy scent. He opens the top drawer of his dresser. “Would you like a fresh T-shirt to sleep in?”
And that’s when I realize I’m still in my smelly Filthy’s T-shirt. “Yeah, thanks. That would be great.”
He pulls out a black T-shirt and lays it on the corner of the bed.
“I think I will shower,” I say, because I feel disgusting in more ways than one.
He nods. “If I can steal a minute in the bathroom first . . . ?”
“Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”
He hesitates for a second, then grasps my elbow and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “I’ll be right out.”
Butterflies erupt in my stomach, but then he’s gone behind the bathroom door.
A few minutes later, he’s back. “All yours,” he says with a wave of his hand.
“Thanks.” I take the T-shirt and close the door behind me.
His tub is an old claw-foot with a showerhead mounted on the wall and a curtain all the way around. I pull the curtain closed and turn on the water. While it warms, I quickly peel off my Filthy’s T-shirt and jeans, then climb in. The water feels so good, tiny fingers washing all the shit away. I stand in it for a long time, then reach for Alessandro’s soap and hold it to my nose. It smells tangy—tangerine, maybe—and I recognize it as the scent under his spicy cologne. I lather up and shampoo, then rinse and turn off the water. As I stand in the tub and drip, I listen for Alessandro, but the apartment is quiet. Maybe he’s asleep.
I step out and dry off, then tug Alessandro’s T-shirt over my head. It’s soft and comfortable and smells like fresh laundry, and somehow just that makes me feel calmer. I turn out the light and slip out the door, and find the apartment dark except for the sidelight on the nightstand next to the bed. Alessandro is lying on the couch in a slant of moonlight, bare-chested with a sheet over his lower half, where I see a Calvin Klein waistband poking out. The sight stalls my feet . . . and my heart.
I wasn’t imagining the body. He’s lean and sculpted, but not bulky. Those pecs are truly spectacular . . . and the cut abs. But it’s the arm tucked behind his head that draws my attention and makes my heart thump back into rhythm: the thick vein snaking along his forearm and up his bulging biceps, the lean triceps, the long fingers curled into wavy black hair that’s a little mussed. My groin tightens and, damn if I don’t want to crawl onto that couch with him.
But I can’t want him like that. This can’t happen.
I shouldn’t have come here.
He presses those lean arms into the cushions and pulls himself to a sitting position, and, in the dim light, I can see the fire in his eyes. He doesn’t say a word, but I know from that look that he wouldn’t turn me away if I went to him.
I stand here for a few more beats of my racing heart, torn between what I know is right and the pull of that gaze. Finally, I give in to the pull. Despite the hot shower, I’m a little numb as I move toward him. He slides over and makes room for me and I lie next to him. He folds me into those arms, and at the feel of them around me my breath catches on a sigh. I burrow into his side and lay my head on his arm. His lips are soft against my forehead, and I feel his hot breath, a little ragged, as he strokes my hair. But his hands don’t touch any other part of me.
I lay my palm lightly on his chest, and my heart constricts as I feel him tense, his breathing stopping for a beat. But when I don’t move it lower, he relaxes a little. We lie here for a long time, his breath on my face and the feel of his hard body against mine doing things to the deepest parts of me.
“Good night, Hilary,” he finally whispers.
“ ’Night,” I whisper back. I work to keep my breathing even as I lie here in Alessandro’s arms, pressed against his perfect, half-naked body, wanting more of him, but knowing I can never have it.
And it’s a really long time before I can sleep.
Chapter Nineteen
“STOP!”
Alessandro’s shout, and the feeling of his body jerking under mine, wakes me from a sound sleep and catapults my heart into my throat.
It’s light outside, soft morning rays painting the walls of Alessandro’s studio with pale pink and gold streaks.
I try to move and feel my limbs twisted into Alessandro’s. He’s hot and I see the sheen of sweat on his forehead as he looks down at me with tortured eyes.