Page 72 of The Cost of Silence

And God help me, I don’t hesitate.

I slide my leggings off and shrug my sweater over my head as Nico helps, his hot, hungry gaze on the creamy lace underwear that hides nothing.

“Fuck me, you’re stunning.”

He rubs his thumb along his bottom lip as he assesses me, and goosebumps erupt all over my body. With the way he’s looking at me and the bulge in his pants, my ribs are the last thing on my mind right now.

“Get in before I forget myself and fuck you right here.”

I hesitate a second, my breath coming in short pants and he growls.

“Get. In. The. Hot tub.”

I obey because when he uses that tone on me, I can do nothing else. I watch as he sheds his suit, but leaves his black boxers, the huge bulge making my mouth water. I’ve never been into blow jobs, but God, I want to taste this man on my tongue.

“Fuck’s sake, Isabella, you keep looking at me like that and I’m going to feed my cock down your throat.”

My pants become harder and he swears under his breath and stalks toward me.

The moment Nico steps into the hot tub with me the air seems to thicken.

Not steam. Not heat. It’s all him.

He moves through the water with that slow, predatory grace, all coiled control and quiet purpose, until he’s standing right in front of me. The glass roof above us catches the city lights, scattering them across his shoulders, his chest, the sharp cut of muscle that disappears beneath the surface.

“Lift your arms,” he murmurs.

My breath stutters. “Why?”

His mouth curves in that sinful way that makes my knees weak. “So I can touch you.”

God help me, I obey.

Water beads down my skin as I raise my arms, exposing myself to him, baring everything, as he unhooks my bra and draws the lace straps down my arms before tossing it away. His hands rise, big, warm, sure, and glide from my wrists down the length of my arms, slow enough that I feel every inch of the journey. He cups my breasts and leans in to flick each nipple with his tongue and I let my head fall back on a moan, before he lifts his head to look at me.

“You’re tense,” he says softly. “Still sore.”

I want to deny it. Pretend I’m fine. Pretend I’m not a bundle of nerves, and desire, and too many feelings I shouldn’t be having. But his thumbs brush the inside of my breast, and a small, involuntary sound slips from my throat, half gasp, half whimper.

His eyes darken. “There she is,” he rasps. “My Belle.”

My pulse kicks violently. I should correct him, tell him I’m not his, tell him this is just fun, just physical, just a fling like I suggested. But the words stick to my tongue, melting. If I say it, everything changes. So, I swallow it instead.

His hands slide over my shoulders next, slow and reverent, then down over my collarbone. He traces my shape with a tenderness that shouldn’t fit his hard edges, his thumbs brushing the tops of my breasts in a feather-light pass that sends heat pooling low in my belly.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Beautiful. Soft. Tempting me without even trying.”

“I’m not trying,” I whisper.

“You don’t have to.” His gaze flicks up, pinning me. “You show me everything without saying a word.”

I attempt a breath, fail, and end up making a shaky, needy sound that only seems to fuel him.

He leans in, not touching me with anything but his hands, but somehow his entire body feels pressed to mine.

“Tell me something,” he says quietly. “Did you think about last night today?”

My cheeks go hot. “I… yes.”