We almost kissed.
Leo almost kissed me. I almost kissed him. We were seconds away from crossing a line that can’t be uncrossed, and if Dante hadn’t called?—
I can’t let myself finish that thought.
I go straight to my room without waiting for Leo to come back, not trusting myself to face him again tonight. My hands are shaking as I close the door behind me, my heart still pounding sohard I can feel it in my throat. I lean back against the door and close my eyes, but that’s worse because all I can see is Leo’s face inches from mine, his dark eyes, and the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
I push off the door and pace the room, running my hands through my hair, trying to calm down. My skin feels too tight, too hot, like I’m burning up from the inside out. I can still feel the ghost of his hand on my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. I can still smell cedar and bergamot. I can still feel the heat of his body when we were pressed close together.
A shower. I need a shower. That’ll help clear my head, cool me down, and wash away the memory of his touch and the almost-kiss and the way my entire body is still buzzing with unfulfilled want.
I grab clean clothes from the dresser without really looking at what I’m picking—sleep shorts and a tank top, fine, whatever—and head into the bathroom. I turn the water on as hot as I can stand it, steam already starting to fill the space as I strip off my clothes. My hands are still trembling slightly as I pull my hair up into a messy bun to keep it mostly dry.
The mirror is fogging up but I can still see my reflection: flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted. I look like I’ve been kissed even though I haven’t been, and that somehow makes it worse.
I step under the spray and close my eyes, letting the hot water pound over my shoulders and down my back. It should help. It should calm me down, clear my head, give me space to think rationally about what almost happened and why I need to make sure it never almost happens again.
But it doesn’t help.
Because even with my eyes closed and hot water running over my skin, I can’t stop thinking about him.
About how close we came. About his hand on my face and his thumb on my cheekbone and the way he looked at me. How his lips were less than an inch from mine and howbadlyI wanted to close that distance.
About what would have happened if Dante hadn’t called.
I want him in a way that goes beyond just physical attraction, though god knows there’s plenty of that. I want his attention and his time and his rare smiles that he only seems to give me. I want to be the reason his voice softens and his eyes warm. I want to understand all the complicated layers of him, want to know every story behind every scar, want to be the person he trusts with his grief and his loneliness and all the parts of himself he keeps hidden from everyone else.
But right now, in the privacy of my shower where no one can see or judge, I’m thinking about the physical want.
I’m thinking about his hands. Those long, elegant fingers that I’ve watched drum against his desk when he’s thinking or run through his hair when he’s frustrated. I’ve spent way too much time imagining what those hands would feel like on my body—how they’d circle my waist or feel sliding up my thighs or how they’d grip my hips.
And hismouth. The way his lips curve when he smiles, the slight fullness of his bottom lip that I want to bite. I’m thinking about what he’d taste like. How would he kiss? Would it be gentle or demanding or some perfect combination of both?
My thoughts trail to his voice. Would his voice drop low and rough the way it does sometimes when he says my name?Fuck, how I want to hear that voice in the dark, in bed, whispering things that would make me blush.
My hand slides down my body almost without conscious thought, and I let myself imagine what would have happened if Dante hadn’t called as I slip them inside me and press against the spot that makes my legs shake.
I imagine Leo kissing me, his mouth finally closing that last inch of distance, his lips pressing against mine with all the want I saw in his eyes. He’d kiss me hard, demanding, like he’s been holding back for weeks and finally can’t anymore. One hand would stay cupped against my face while the other tightened on my waist, pulling me flush against him until I could feel every hard line of his body.
I imagine stumbling backward until my back hits the wall, his body pressing me there, solid and warm and right. His hands would be everywhere—sliding into my hair, gripping my hips, trailing up my ribs. He’d tilt my head back to deepen the kiss, and I’d make some embarrassing sound that would make him smile against my mouth.
But this is the shower, not the dining room, and in this fantasy we don’t stop.
I imagine Leo pressing me against the shower wall instead, the tile cool against my back in contrast to the heat of his skin. Water would run over both of us as his mouth moved from my lips to my jaw to that spot on my neck that I know would make me gasp. His hands would slide down my body, learning every curve, every sensitive spot.
“Emma,” he’d say in that deep, rough voice, and I’d feel iteverywhere.
My fingers move faster, my breathing getting harder as the fantasy builds. I imagine his hand replacing mine between my legs, those long fingers sliding through my wetness with expert confidence. He’d know exactly where to touch and how much pressure, because Leo Santoro doesn’t do anything halfway. He’d watch my face while he touched me, those dark eyes intense and focused, drinking in every reaction.
“Tell me what you want,” he’d murmur against my skin, his fingers moving in slow circles that are driving me crazy.
“You,” I’d gasp. “I want you.”
And then his fingers would slide inside me, curling just right while his thumb circled my clit, and I’d be lost. I’d grip his shoulders, his hair, anything I could reach, while he worked me higher and higher. He’d kiss me while I came apart, swallowing my moans, his own breathing harsh with want.
But he wouldn’t stop there. In my fantasy, he’d lift me up, my legs wrapping around his waist, and I’d feel the hard length of him pressed exactly where I need him. His forehead would rest against mine, both of us breathing hard, and he’d ask one more time—“Are you sure?”—because even in my fantasies Leo asks for permission.
“Yes,” I’d breathe. “Please,yes.”