Page 87

"Marcelo—I can't—I'm going to—"

"Come for me." He bit down on my neck. "Come on my cock so I can feel you fall apart."

I detonated, screaming his name as my body clenched violently around him. He cursed in Italian, hips stuttering, then drove in one final time and spilled inside me with a guttural groan.

We stayed like that, shaking and gasping, still joined. His forehead dropped to my shoulder. I felt his heart slamming against my ribs.

"Mine," he muttered into my damp skin. "You're fucking mine, Ruby."

I couldn't argue. Didn't want to.

He carried me to the bed after, still half-hard inside me, and started all over again.

❦ ❦ ❦

I don't know how much time passed.

The rain outside shifted from violent to a soft patter.

The bedroom reeked of sweat and cedar.

Sheets were destroyed. Marcelo lay on his side next to me, one heavy arm draped across my waist, pulling me tight against his chest. His chin rested on top of my head. Sleep had smoothed away the day's violence and guard, leaving him looking deep and peaceful.

I lay there, eyes sore and open, watching his hand on my stomach in the weak morning light through the window.

That hand—strong, defined knuckles. On his left ring finger, the signet ring engraved with the intricate snake family crest glinted cold metal in the dimness.

This was a man who controlled night and violence.

I still didn't know who DeLuca was. Didn't know what guns and schemes he'd face tomorrow. Didn't know when Mom's shrill insults would become prophetic nightmares. Didn't know how long the massive class gulf between us could hold.

The complicated world still hung overhead like a giant net.

But I reached out gently, threading my fingers through his cool ones, slowly lacing them together.

My back pressed against his burning, steady heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Solid and real.

At least in this moment, in this morning that belonged just to us, I closed my eyes, burrowed deeper into his arms, and chose to trust him.

Chapter 22

Ruby

The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind me.

I slumped against the cold surface, legs shaking, and dragged the back of my hand across my mouth.

My lips burned. I didn't need a mirror to know how swollen they were. I could still smell him—that aggressive mix of cedarwood and dry tobacco that clung to Marcelo's skin. Minutes ago, behind that massive mahogany desk, he'd pinned me against the leather executive chair, gripping the back of my neck while he kissed me hard enough to bruise. His hand had slid down my side, kneading the taut fabric of my skirt until I'd choked out a string of humiliating whimpers.

"Come to my place tonight, little rose." His voice had been rough in my ear, tongue grazing my earlobe.

I sucked in a shaky breath and stumbled into the elevator, fumbling in my bag for concealer and nude matte lipstick. I worked fast, using the gleaming metal walls as a mirror, trying to hide the evidence of what we'd just done.

From that rainy night in Hoboken to now—barely two weeks.

We'd fallen into this pattern. Unspoken. Underground. At the office, we kept up appearances—boss and subordinate. But all it took was one text, one call, and I'd find some excuse to slip into his office. "Updating on sample progress." "Confirming fabric details." Most of the time, we didn't bother with excuses at all.

The second that door closed, the distance between us shattered. He'd press me against that wide desk and kiss me in ways that made my knees give out, until Clara knocked to remind him of his next meeting and I'd escape, face burning.