Ezra’s heat radiates through the back of my server’s shirt as he steps closer, and the fine hairs on my neck rise in primal awareness. His hands settle on my shoulders, straightening thehunch of my spine I adopted for Nico Duran, adding inches to my height.
I should move away. Should maintain distance. Should remember all the reasons this is dangerous.
Instead, I remain frozen as his lips brush the nape of my neck, just below where my wig meets skin. The butterfly-soft touch sends electricity racing down my spine to pool low in my hips.
“I knew you’d come back for it, eventually.” His lips skim up my throat. “Back to me.”
For one treacherous moment, I melt into his touch, my body remembering the countless nights spent in his arms, the pleasure awaiting me there. My head tilts, giving him better access in a betrayal of my conscious intentions.
Then shame floods through me, hot and choking. I’m doing it again, getting lost in the character, forgetting who I am. Who he is. What brought me here in the first place.
I pull away, putting three feet of distance between us. “Stop doing that,” I snap, hating how weak I sound. “Nothing is going to happen.”
Ezra doesn’t chase after me. Doesn’t try to close the gap I’ve created. Instead, his lips curl into that half-smile that still sends my heart racing. “You’re cute when you lie to yourself.”
A shiver rolls through me, goose bumps rising all over my body.
His fingers move to his shirt buttons, undoing them methodically. One by one, they come undone, revealing a slice of tanned skin, the defined planes of his chest. But it’s what marks his skin that captures my full attention.
Tattoos. Intricate designs that weren’t there a year ago, scrolling across his chest and down his arms in elegant, flowing patterns. I stare, dizzy with fascination.
The artwork on his skin is exquisite, a combination of baroque frames and classical imagery that winds its way across his torso. Fragments of broken statuary dance along his left pectoral, while Latin inscriptions trace the curve of his right shoulder.
When did he get them? What pain do they cover? The questions form in my mind but die on my tongue, unspoken.
His body has changed, too. He was always fit, always powerful, but there’s a new hardness to him now, a solid strength honed by hours of channeling rage into physical exertion. The boy I left has been carved away, replaced by a dangerous man.
My mouth goes dry as I trace the path of an intricate design that vanishes beneath his waistband. I swallow hard and drag my focus back to his face only to find him smirking.
“Like what you see?” he asks, satisfaction evident in every syllable. “I’ve made some changes since you ran away.”
Since you ran away. Not left. As if he understands it wasn’t the money but the fear and need for self-preservation that drove me from his side.
Ezra stalks across the floor, covering the distance between us before I can retreat further. His hands find my waist, fingers digging into my flesh through the thin uniform with possessive intent. He pushes me backward until I collide with the wall, my shoulder blades meeting the textured wallpaper, the solid heat of him pinning me in place.
I push his chest in a token resistance we both know lacks conviction, and my palms burn where they touch his inked skin.
“Don’t,” I whimper, the word more plea than command.
Don’t break me open.
Don’t make me vulnerable.
Don’t force me to feel again.
His lips curve as he buries his face into the crook where my shoulder meets my throat. “Still lying to yourself. Still pretending you don’t want this as much as I do.”
I turn my face away, unable to deny the truth of his words. Not with my body responding to his proximity with embarrassing eagerness.
Heat pools in my belly, spreads lower, weakening my knees and my resolve. “I don’t want this.”
“Liar.” His mouth finds the sensitive spot behind my ear, the one he discovered during our first week together, the one that has me gasping and arching in reaction. “You’ve never wanted anything more in your life, and it terrifies you.”
His teeth graze my earlobe, and rational thought fractures. My fingers on his chest curl into the hard muscles, clinging to him. He takes this surrender as an invitation, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss that’s more possession than affection.
I should fight harder. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. But his insistent, hungry lips melt the ice that’s sealed off my emotions far too long, and need ignites beneath his touch.
With a moan of surrender, I kiss him back.
