Page 10

I jumped. The bottle nearly slipped from my hand. I almost tumbled off the cold stone bench.

A few feet away by the hedges stood Mr. Moretti—the man who'd just been circling in my head. He'd removed his obscenely expensive suit jacket, draped casually over his bent forearm. His tie hung loose, exposing his throat, his Adam's apple. Long fingers held a half-burned cigarette, the red ember glowing in the darkness, carving his sharp features even more handsome than in the hallway—and more dangerous.

"Are you... stalking me?" The accusation rolled off my tongue wrapped in slurred, uncontrolled alcohol fumes.

"I'm smoking. You're the one who barged in." He exhaled a stream of pale smoke, his gaze piercing through the haze to pin my face. "But I'm curious why you're hiding alone in a garden at midnight, stealing expensive whiskey."

"It's called celebrating!" I laughed bitterly, tilting the bottle back for another burning gulp that made tears stream down my face. "You know what, Mr. Moretti? I just got really lucky and cut a complete asshole out of my life. My perfect boyfriend—sorry, ex-boyfriend—has been screwing the hottest blonde on campus. Our whole year together, everything he ever said to me, was just a bet. So yeah, I'm celebrating finally seeing his true colors!"

I had no idea why I was spilling my guts to a man who'd just harassed me. Maybe because he was a stranger I didn't have to worry about. Maybe because the alcohol had completely dissolved all my caution and judgment. Or maybe just because he was one of the few people who'd complimented me, even if it was through harassment.

"That boy's an idiot." Mr. Moretti made a low, cold sound through his nose.

"No, this is exactly what I deserve. This is what I—" I pointed sloppily at my nose, laughing through tears. "This is what I get for thinking someone like him could love a fat girl like me. My mom was right. Chad was right. Everyone was right! I've got so much disgusting fat, I should hide in the gutter. I should be grateful anyone wanted to bet on me for laughs!"

Mr. Moretti's brow furrowed sharply. He crushed out his cigarette and walked toward me. His black leather shoes crunched on the gravel path, cold and heavy.

"Shut up, girl."

"Am I wrong?" I yelled back, eyes red. "I am too fat. I'm so fat I have to suck in my breath just to zip up my dress! They said I'm disgusting, they—"

Shadow swallowed me whole.

Mr. Moretti stopped half an inch from my knees. The night wind carried his intense cedar and tobacco scent, dominantly cutting off all my escape routes.

His eyes went dark as a Sicilian sea in a rainstorm. His gaze scraped from my red eyes down my heaving chest, finally settling on my lips. The mature face that had worn a respectable veneer crumbled inch by inch, replaced by undisguised lust and aggression.

"You know what bullshit you're spewing?" His voice dropped, rough and raspy. "Listen. Only soft, inexperienced boys who don't know what to do in bed obsess over bony coat hangers. Because they don't have the strength or stamina to handle a real, lush, ripe body."

"You think you're less than those women? Fuck, you're perfect. Your curves would burn any normal man's sanity to ash. If I were your idiot ex-boyfriend, I would've torn off that damn sequined dress outside and pinned you against the wall, fucked you until you begged me to stop—not left you standing in the cold listening to that garbage talk."

Crude. Filthy. But wrapped in scalding, bone-deep certainty.

Electric current shot from my ankles to my scalp.

He was too close. Through the thin, cheap sequined fabric, I could feel the iron-hard muscle of his arm and the terrifying heat radiating from his palm on my waist. That heat felt like it would burn through my skin and brand me as his.

Twenty-four years.

For twenty-four years, I'd lived under Mom's sighs of "watch what you eat, don't get any fatter." Lived in front of fitting room mirrors hating my extra flesh. Lived in Chad and those frat trash's mocking, toying condescension. I'd been a pathetic clown, desperately pleasing, desperately hiding, even degrading myself to take those explicit photos I couldn't stand looking at—all for one scrap of cheap "acceptance."

But now this man at the peak of New York power used the dirtiest, most blunt, most unfiltered filthy words to define all the flesh the world despised as a lethal weapon that could drive men insane.

Fuck decency. Fuck rationality. Fuck the future.

The agony of betrayal, the dizzying burn of alcohol, and the hunger and wildness buried in the darkest corner of my soul—it all tore through every cage in that instant.

If I was destined to be a filthy, shameful sinner, if this body was really the fire he said could burn sanity to ash—

Then why not go completely insane for once?

Even if it's just tonight. Even if dawn brings irredeemable hell.

I didn't retreat. Instead, I leaned forward half an inch. My full, soft chest pressed against his hard, cold shirt without hesitation. I lifted my head and met those bottomless eyes.

"Prove it," I said through gritted teeth, trembling all over as I met his crushing gaze, desperation and desire colliding in my chest. "Take me. Prove what you said is real. Prove you want my body. Prove you want me."

Mr. Moretti's jaw tightened violently. His gray-green pupils contracted into dangerous slits.