“I don’t have a hair tie,” she says quietly.
I almost laugh at the speed of her reply. “Then bunch it behind your head for me.”
She does as I instruct, her fingers trembling, and I move behind her. I unfold the tie and wrap it around her strawberry blond hair. It’s longer than it used to be but gleams like it always did. I pull the tie into a bow letting the ponytail fall down her back.
Rounding her body, I stand close enough that I can feel her heat penetrate my shirt. The scent rising from her skin is intoxicating, like honey wending through my veins, flooding my brain with something addictive.
My sense of control just slipped its leash.
I shouldn’t be this close to her. Every instinct I’ve honed over the years—discipline, restraint, detachment—is starting to fracture.
Her breath stutters, her chest rising and falling.
My gaze drops to her throat, and there it is. A pulse, fluttering wildly beneath her soft skin.
My mouth floods again and I take a step closer. Close enough that there’s no space left between us, that if she sways even an inch she’ll collide with me.
“Don’t move,” I murmur.
She freezes to the spot, rigid.
I bend my head slowly and deliberately. My nose brushes the curve of her jaw first, a whisper of contact that makes her inhale sharply. I follow the line of her skin down, grazing, fondling with my senses, until I reach the place where her neck meets her shoulder.
And then I stop.
My head feels dizzy and my hands areburningto touch her. Her scent wraps around me like a blanket—warm, sweet, and achingly real. It hooks into my flesh like a claw. Like a beautiful madness. It fills my lungs, settles under my skin, turns my thoughts into thick syrup.
I’m floating when she makes a sound. Like a hum, or a sigh. Whatever it was, she swallowed it fast.
My lips hover just shy of her skin, not quite touching, but close enough that every breath I take drags across her like a promise.
Satisfaction crawls across every inch of me, because for one whole month, Pfeiffer McAllister—finally—ismine.
CHAPTER NINE
Pfeiffer
I’m stiff as a board,sweating with adrenaline and aching in places I didn’t know had nerve endings. His lips drift over the lobe of my ear, his breath hot and intense.
I hear his slow inhalation then feel the whisper of his words on my cheek.
“I want to see you.”
The dark promise in his tone unbalances me so bad, my fingers burn to reach out and hold onto him. I have no idea what this is, this feeling, but it heats me like a fever, crawling up my throat, licking over my face, creeping into my hairline.
His breaths deepen, a guttural sound touching the edges. My lack of experience in relationships doesn’t fill me with confidence around men, but something instinctive and primal tells me he… wants this.
Wantsme.
The room moves in and out of focus as his body braces for my response.
I’m so confused. Every interaction I’ve had with Il Diavolo up to now has been enveloped in something hateful.
Notthis.
I anchor back to his words.I want to see you.
It isn’t demand I hear; it’s vulnerability. Despite this, I know what I’ve agreed to and I know that as long as he honors my one condition—to not put his hands on me—I can’t not do as he says.