my ears. Brando went to take my hand, but I refused his touch, tucking my hands underneath the jacket.
I closed my eyes and fought the urge to vomit. Since the alcohol had started a slow dissolve, I didn’t want to vomit on him in an act of revenge, I just wanted to run—clean cut, no mess to think back on and regret.
The mistake he had made by reentering my life seemed to hold enough regret for the two of us.
He sighed, a deep, hurtful sound. In such a careful way that I hardly felt him, he lowered next to me, resting his face in his palm. He slipped his free hand under the jacket, searching for one of mine.
At the first hint of his skin, I shivered. The heat from his touch caused a physical reaction, something akin to stepping into a hot shower after being out in the cold for too long. The warmth that seemed to blow my way was not from the fire, but from him.
I could feel his eyes on me.
“You’re not the mistake. I am.” He paused, took a deep breath, and then released it. His hand moved from mine, coming to rest on my bare stomach.
I sucked in a breath. His touch sent my heart into overdrive and the fluttering wings into panic mode. That area of my body felt hyperaware, too tender, like nothing had ever touched the skin there before him. His fingertips were gentle as they caressed, making short circles.
He moved in closer, resting his nose against the corner of my eye and his lips against my skin. His kisses were gentle, light as they trailed down my face, coming to a stop just short of my mouth. I turned just a fraction, our eyes and lips meeting.
My eyes were hard, his were soft, and after our silent eye battle, he closed his. The air seemed to shift around us, and I could feel his surrender. He molded to fit my mold, pressing even closer to me. He had never been so vulnerable, so pliable, or so raw. I could shape him to my will, bend him to the shape of my want. The power had somehow shifted in my direction.
We were at an impasse.
It took time to become a woman, to become mature enough to understand the ways of the world that I had yet to become privy to. The truth compelled me to admit this to myself. But I was learning. Fast. The power wielded with just the look in my eyes forced me to take notice.
He’s in my veins. I can feel him. Therefore, I know what to do with a man like him.
Brando Fausti belonged to me in that moment—whatever I wanted, whatever I asked for, was mine to take.
I didn’t want to take. I wanted him to give. If the next step, the next words, directed us, for once I wanted him to submit willingly, not by force. Lord knows he went on about it enough during our earlier argument. He had made his point.
I felt an acute awareness of what he could do to me. Just his proximity, the touch of his skin on mine, had clouded almost every thought, every ounce of power in my possession. The urge to hit him and attack him with my lips came all at once.
“A truce.” His lips moved against mine in a slow and delicate motion, barely touching, just a soft caress. He inhaled the scent of my skin. “I crossed a line that I can’t uncross. Give me time, Scarlett. Have mercy on me.” He took my hand and brought it to his heart, the beat pounding against the solidity of my palm.
“I—” I took a deep breath and then released it. “I can’t be your little sister, Brando.”
To my surprise, he grinned. His hand drifted, his fingertips trailing over my stomach, all the way down to my thigh. His warm hand squeezed exposed cool skin. I stifled a moan. “You’ll spend time with me. Not here.”
“You’ll talk to me?” The tremble in my voice betrayed the hardness lingering in my eyes.
“As much as I can.”
“All right,” I whispered. “Will you still be afraid of the word why?”
“I’m not afraid of the word why.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes—”
He groaned, almost growled, against my mouth. I shivered from the vibration. We were not kissing, not really, but oh God, I wanted him to kiss me more than anything.
“All right,” I said with a slow tongue. Then I swallowed hard,