Page 291 of Alessio

Alessio called often.

It could be possible that Alessio took on a last-minute assignment from The League that took him out of the country, or required him to drop off the radar for a while. Even then, though, he would always let Corrado know.

The silence bothered him.

Something felt wrong.

Corrado couldn’t think on it for long. The click of heels coming down the hallway toward the penthouse’s entrance had him turning his head away from the view at the window in just enough time to see Ginevra come around the corner.

And damn.

What a sight.

It would have been a shame to miss that.

The gray, silk dress with thin straps over her shoulders was tight around the bodice, and cut low. Showing off just a peek of the beige lace bra cups underneath that made her chest look fucking fantastic. His gaze traveled lower, taking in the tightly cinched waist of the dress, and the way it fell over her hips and came to a stop quite a few inches above the knees.

It was short as hell.

She showed off all kinds of leg, and he loved it. He really did. She held tight to a matching clutch in her hand. The strappy, five-inch heels put her at damn near eye-level with him, and every step she took showed off a little more of the olive-toned skin of her thighs. And apparently, a diamond garter around her right thigh that only peeked out when the slit in the skirt of the dress opened with her steps.

It matched the choker at her throat.

And the studs in her ears.

Christ.

Which took his gaze right back up to her face. There, he found her lips were a stark red, and she had somehow managed to paint her innocence away with dark strokes of kohl that smoked her eyes, and mascara that fanned her lashes.

“Beautiful,” Corrado murmured.

Entirely unable to stop himself, too.

He just said it.

It needed to be said.

Like he needed more reminders of just how fucking attractive this woman was because apparently, his body didn’t let him know enough on a daily basis. Like their little moment that morning in the gym wasn’t a huge fucking mistake that he suddenly wanted to make again. Or the fact that as he stood across the hall from her bedroom doorway, listening to her as she got herself off, that he considered breaking her door down because he wanted to be the one doing that.

Guilt.

Lust.

It warred inside him.

He was so fucked.

Not that it mattered.

He was determined to do nothing—say nothing.

It was better this way.

“You think so?” Ginevra asked, coming to stand in front of him. “I didn’t know if this was going to be appropriate for whatever—”

“It’s perfect, and so are you.”

Her stare lifted then to meet his, and he didn’t quite know what to make of what he found there. Confusion, mostly, but desire, too. That was his fault—he pulled her in only to push her away, and she probably felt like a fucking ping pong ball, now.