Page 75 of Diego

Every thought in my head freezes.

The arm is large. Muscular.

Bare.

The body attached to it is pressed along my back, radiating heat beneath the blanket, one broad chest fitted against me closely enough that I can feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing. His face is somewhere near the back of my neck, and one of his legs is tangled with mine as though this is an entirely ordinary way for us to wake up.

I do not move.

I barely breathe.

My eyes remain fixed on the windows while my brain begins assembling the facts with horrifying clarity.

I am naked.

There is a naked man behind me.

I am naked in a seller’s bedroom with a naked man behind me.

The naked man is not some stranger I met in a bar whose last name I can conveniently forget.

He is a client.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

No. Worse.

He is one of the owners of the company where I work.

Diego Conti.

My eyes fly open again as everything from last night returns at once.

The wine.

The living room.

His mouth on mine.

My hands in his hair.

Switzerland.

Oh, God. Switzerland.

The memory keeps coming whether I want it or not. His hands sliding under my shirt. Me sitting on the back of the sofa with my skirt around my hips and absolutely no concern whatsoever for professionalism, employment law, common sense, or basic human dignity. His mouth against my skin. The ridiculous sounds I made. The things I let him do while I apparently lost every functioning part of my brain.

Heat floods my face.

The kitchen.

I physically cringe beneath the blanket.

I am never going to be able to look at stone countertops again.

I remember sitting there completely naked while Diego looked at me as though I were extraordinary. I remember the way he touched me, kissed me.

His dark head between my legs.