Chapter 17

Layla

“Aldo, what’s wrong?” Had he taken some kind of drug?

The man in my bed was definitely Aldo Marcello—those chiseled cheekbones and strong jaw, the plumped lips and long black lashes, the scarred, muscled body, could belong to no other. But it wasn’t him.

“Nothing’s wrong.” He leaned in towards me, like maybe he’d kiss me. My heart raced, raced, raced at the proximity of him, raced at the feel of his hard, warm body so close to mine. At the familiarity of it.

Mine. He was mine.

And I wanted nothing more than to close the distance between us—

But this wasn’t him. I placed a palm against his chest to hold him back. Study him, even as my body yearned for his. “You don’t look right.”

He looked high—eyes glassy and out of focus, skin too hot, breaths shallow, heart racing against the press of my palm as I pushed him back. “Aldo? Did you take something?”

It even looked like the beginnings of a bruise had started to darken the skin around his left eye.

“No. Nothing’s wrong,” he murmured. His hands slid up my neck to cup my cheeks with the gentlest touch. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

The words whispered against my cheek, soft and gentle and right—how long had I wanted to hear those words? Needed to hear them?

How long had I craved the familiar press of his body, hardened with muscle, heated with arousal?

And how could I push him away? How could I possibly tell him no, when everything about this was everything I wanted. He was right; we were right.

So I didn’t push him away.

Not when he leaned forward. Closed the distance between us.

Not when his mouth ghosted across mine. His tongue swept over the seam of my lips, giving me the barest taste of mint and whiskey.

And I couldn’t push him away. Couldn't tell him no.

He was right; we were exactly where we were supposed to be.

I opened my mouth and welcomed him. His tongue swept into my mouth, dancing across mine in the softest touch that set my every nerve afire. Familiar and new at the same time.

Him and us.

Right, right, right.

All I’d ever wanted, right here in my grasp. Him and us.

The kiss turned from sweet to fiery in an instant. Passionate. Heated. Like we needed to devour each other, taste every inch. Whiskey and mint, him and me. Exactly where we were meant to be.

His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. Swept down the curve of my back to squeeze my ass in an iron grip. His hips pressed into mine.

Our bodies melted together. Hot and hard, every line of him against every line of me. All I could feel was him. All I knew was him.

Right, right, right.

He rocked forward again, so his hardened cock slid between my legs. So the wide, firm head rubbed against my clit. And when he ground against me, the tantalizing friction against my most sensitive spot sent arousal coursing through me in a heady wave of heat. Pulled a moan from deep inside my chest.

He felt so good, so right, in a way nothing had in eight long years.

“Aldo.”

“I want you,” he murmured. His lips lined my jaw, towards my ear. His tongue flicked soft flesh beneath my ear. “So fucking bad.”

And I wanted him too. More than I’d ever wanted anyone, now or then. I rocked against him, taking more friction from him. Tangling myself into him. Offering him everything we both so desperately wanted—

No.

This wasn’t real.

Him, here, with me? It wasn’t his choice. Not when he was clearly not himself, not thinking straight. I was taking something that wasn’t being given, that wasn’t mine to have.

Fuck.

I shoved away from him, my chest heaving with panted breaths. “I can’t do this.”

My whole body ached for him. But I couldn’t answer the call.

As much as his touch awakened a passion inside me I hadn’t known for years, this wasn’t real. He was high—probably on some kind of aphrodisiac.

“Layla,” Aldo moaned, and the name almost undid me. Almost drew me back into his embrace. He leaned in again, and like a magnet, I felt myself drawn forward—

“No!”

“Layla—”

“No!” My open palm slapped across his cheek to force him back. “Show me some respect! No means no, Aldo.”

“But I want you—” His fingers wrapped around my lower back, pulling me closer. Right—

“No, you don’t!” My fingers closed around the glass on my bedside table before I realized what I was doing, and the cold water splashed across his face. He shrank back, hissing like an angry cat.

With his hands off me, some clarity returned to my mind. Logic. A doctor’s practicality.

I sat up. “I don’t know what you took, but you need a shower and lots of water.”

“Layla …”

“Come on.” I sighed and slid from the bed. “Get up. We’ll get you into the bath.”

Surprisingly, he obeyed. The sheets tugged from the bed as he stumbled out of it, but he walked with relative steadiness towards the bathroom. The door closed behind him, and I stood, the empty water glass still in my hand, trying not to feel the ghost of his lips on my skin.

Trying not to feel his hands on my back. My thighs. Between my legs. Trying not to remember the desperate, needy grind of his erection against my clit—trying not to feel that need through my core, in my entire being.

Trying not to want him, even though none of this was real.

Breathe, Layla. Breathe.

I breathed—

Something crashed from inside the bathroom. Like a body falling onto the floor.

“Shit.” Without hesitation, I rushed towards the door. I shouldn’t have let him go in there alone, not like he was. He’d probably fallen, hurt himself, and I’d be blamed for it.

I shoved the door open.

Aldo sprawled in the tub, fully clothed, his eyes half-lidded with confusion as he looked up at me. Sweat drenched his skin. Did he even recognize me anymore? Or was he too far gone to know where he was?

Shit. What had he taken? And why?

“Well, at least you’re in the right spot.” I reached for the faucet and turned the shower on, dousing him in cold water once again. “Hope that sucks.”

He hissed and spit, looking like a drowned rat in his soaked clothes, hair plastered to his face, skin now red from the cold as much as the heat of his skin. He definitely had bruising along his left cheek and eye.

Pathetic, truly. Mafia king? He was a damned kitten.

I crouched down beside him. Did the sight of the handsome and suave Aldo a pathetic mess in my bathtub bring me some sense of satisfaction? Maybe a bit. After the week I’d had? Yeah.

“Was your real wife not enough for you?” I murmured, because simply looking wasn’t enough. I needed to twist the blade, too. Make him hurt the way he’d hurt me. “You had to have two in one night?”

“Wife?” Aldo’s beautiful face tilted towards me, and in the streaking droplets from the shower, I couldn’t help but think how he looked like a man caught in the rain, in desperate need of an umbrella.

My heart clenched tight in my chest.

“No,” Aldo murmured, his words little more than a whisper. “I never married her.”