She turned and walked away quickly, not quite running but close, her posture rigid with tension. I watched her go, savoring the moment, the knowledge that I was in her head now. That she would think of me when she went home, when she locked her doors, when she lay in bed unable to sleep.
Perfect.
I waited fifteen minutes before leaving the bookstore, giving her time to distance herself, to believe she'd escaped. The rest of the day passed in necessary business—calls to Luca, arrangements for the Naples shipment, the mundane details of running a family enterprise that spanned continents and industries both legitimate and otherwise.
But beneath it all, like a current running deep and strong, was the thought of Grace. Of her face when she'd recognized me. Of the fear and fascination warring in her eyes. Of the way she'd asked if I was following her—direct, unafraid, challenging despite her obvious unease.
By nightfall, I was back at the estate, seated in my office with a glass of whiskey, watching the clock.
11:30 PM. Grace would be home by now. Possibly studying. Possibly playing piano. Eventually sleeping.
Waiting for me, though she didn't know it yet.
I finished my whiskey and changed into dark clothing. Black pants, black sweater, black leather gloves. Nothing that would stand out, nothing that would be remembered.
The drive to her apartment took twenty-three minutes. I parked two blocks away and approached on foot, staying in the shadows, avoiding the streetlights. The security in her building was laughable—a single lock on the main door, easily picked, and no cameras in the hallways.
She lived on the third floor, apartment 3B. I'd been inside twice before while she was at class, learning the layout, studying her possessions, breathing in the scent of her that lingered in the air. But I'd never been there while she was home. Never crossed that particular threshold.
Until tonight.
The lock on her door took less than thirty seconds to pick. I slipped inside, closing it silently behind me, standing motionless in the darkness as my eyes adjusted.
Her apartment was quiet except for the soft sound of breathing coming from the bedroom. No lights were on, but the glow of the city filtered through the windows, casting everything in a soft, blue-tinged darkness.
I moved silently through the space, avoiding the floorboards I knew would creak, making my way to her bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar.
She was asleep.
Grace lay on her back, one arm thrown above her head, the other resting over her stomach, fingers curled loosely. The sheet had ridden up just enough to expose a sliver of bare skin above the waistband of her shorts, soft, pale, and untouched.
Her thighs were slightly parted, one leg bent, the other extended towards the edge of the mattress. The position was almost obscene in its innocence. Her blonde hair spread around her like sunlight on white linen, lips parted in a soft exhale, lashes unmoving. She looked younger in sleep. Softer. Unarmed.
The contrast clawed at me.
She fought me when she was awake; sharp eyes, sharper mouth. But here, like this…she was delicate. Breakable. Her tank top clung to her breasts, sheer enough to make out the faint shadow of her nipples, the gentle rise and fall of her chest with every breast. Her body shifted slightly, and one nipple slippedfree. Just barely…enough to sow the soft pink of her areola, already tightening in the room’s cool air.
My gaze dragged lower.
Her shorts had also shifted, high and crooked. One edge curved up between her thighs, revealing the bare slit of her pussy, lips plush and glistening faintly even in sleep. A quiet kind of wet—arousal her mind hadn’t caught up to yet. But her body had.
Mine.
The word burned in my chest.
I moved closer. Careful. Not out of guilt, just out of reverence.
I let my fingers trail over the edge of the sheet, then up along the inside of her thigh. Her skin was smooth and warm, the muscle beneath it relaxed, trusting. She didn’t stir…but her breath caught.
Then:
”Rafe…”
A whisper. A moan. My name, unguarded.
My cock throbbed hard behind my zipper. I curled my hand into the mattress just to keep still, to keep control. I didn’t want to scare her. Didn’t want to wake her…not yet.
I reached out again, slower this time. My knuckles brush the head of her tank top rising with the curve of her ribs. I slid my hand up over her stomach, the skin there, softer, warmer. Then higher.
