Page 11 of Devil's Thirst
SANTE
What I call protective,some might call possessive. I don’t give a shit how you label it. I willneverwillingly allow someone else to lay a finger on the people I care about. I own my actions because I know my intent aligns with my values. I’ve never questioned whether those instincts bordered on excessive.
Until now.
When the mere suggestion of Amelie being in a relationship that I know damn well doesn’t exist still manages to spark a jealous rage inside me, I have to question whether I’m losing my goddamn mind. I can see the explosive nature of my emotions toward her. I recognize how they cloud my judgment, but I can’t find a way to rein them in. And the more I’m around her, the worse it gets.
Even a day later, my blood pressure pulses in my ears when I think about the possibility of Amelie with another man. The whole damn situation with her is mind-boggling—that I could lose myself so completely in the need to possess another person. I don’t understand it. I only know that this itch beneath my skin won’t stop until she’s naked beneath me. Maybe then I can finally cleanse her from my system.
In the meantime, my dick refuses to even look at another woman, especially after the way Amelie responded to me. Eyes dilated. Lips parted. Pulse thundering at the base of her neck. Nipples so goddamn hard they were two perfect pebbles straining against the fabric of her shirt.
Her body told me all I needed to know.
The pull I feel toward her isn’t a one-way street. She’s still affected by me, even if she has no idea who I am. She didn’t recognize me, but I hadn’t expected her to. More than that, I’m glad she didn’t. I don’t want her to see the old me in the man I am now because we arenothingalike.
All that matters is that she wanted me. Beneath the layers of societal conditioning and innate caution, her body practically begged for my touch.
Everything about our first interaction went exactly as I’d hoped until I asked whether anyone was waiting for her. In an instant, the delicately woven spell connecting us dissipated like dust in the wind.
What was it about my question that upset her?
I mulled over the possibilities all night and got nowhere. It made me feel helpless, which is not something I’ve experienced since I first moved to Sicily, back when I was at my lowest. Drawing me back to that time period has me feeling like I’m wearing a suit two sizes too small. I want to flex and rip the uncomfortable fabric from my body, only there’s no suit to blame. Therefore, I’m doing the only other thing I can think of to relieve the irritation because I have to dosomething. I refuse to wallow in helplessness.
I swore to myself that Amelie would grow to accept me exactly as I am, and I amnotthe kind of man who puts effort into charming a woman. At least, I never used to be, but damn if I’m not about to knock on her door with a steaming cup of Starbucks.
Cazzo.
It doesn’t take her long to answer. She’s tentative when she does, only allowing the door to open enough for her to warily check me out. “Hey, did you need something?”
I extend the cup toward her. “Coffee.”
“For me?”
“For you.”
Her eyes dance from the cup to my face, then back to the cup before she fully opens the door and accepts the offering. She sniffs at the hole in the lid as her brows knit together.
“Is this a caramel macchiato?” she asks with surprise.
“It is.”
“Mmm… my favorite.”
And fuck if I’m not hard again.
“Lucky guess.” My voice has gone ragged with the strain of regaining control of my dick.
Her eyes peer up at me through dark lashes as she takes a sip. And when her eyelids drift shut in satisfaction, I let slip an audible grunt. She’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, and she’s not even trying. Hell, she’s wearing an oversized Led Zeppelin T-shirt and sweatpants so baggy that I have no idea how they’re staying up.
Her eyes pop open as if realizing her effect on me, drawing her attention to the writing on the paper cup. The corners of my lips quirk upward at her huff of amusement.
Never say never.
It’s my response to her insistence that I won’t be joining her at her place.
“Is this a friendly gesture or an attempt to get in my pants?” she asks in a casually curious tone.
“Is there a difference?”