The Italian

“Can I cut in?” a deep voice asks. We turn to see Enrico standing beside us.

“Why, of course you can.” Giorgio smiles and steps aside.

Enrico takes me in his arms. He pulls me close, and my body awakens from her dormant sleep.

Shit…

We sway to the music for a moment as I hold my breath. If I inhale, I’m sure to smell his pheromones—the ones that make me weak at the knees. He towers above me, one hand on my lower back holding me close to his body. The other is holding my hand.

“I had forgotten how good you feel in my arms.” He smiles down at me as everyone around us disappears.

That look… I had forgotten it.

I gently ease my body back from his but he pulls me close again.

“Don’t pull away from me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

He leans closer, his lips resting on my temple, and I begin to feel a warmth seep into my bones.

He feels so good.

“What were you going to say before?” I ask. “When we were at the bar, you started saying something.”

“Does it really matter now?”

“It does to me. I…” I stop myself from speaking.

“Can I see you tomorrow night?”

I stop dancing.

He moves my body with his hands, and I begin to dance again.

“No.”

“Why not?”

I shake my head. “Why would I want to see you after last time?”

“It was out of my control before.”

I roll my eyes.

“I never left you in a prison to rot.”

“That’s exactly what you did.”

“I ensured you had the best legal team available. It was all that I could do at the time.”

I stop, angered at his piss poor excuse. “That’s not good enough. Whatever. This is pointless.” I pull out of his arms. “Rico, I told you to stay away from me.”

He pulls me close again. “Don’t go,” he whispers. His lips drop to my temple, and I close my eyes at the feel of him there.

“It was a very bad time for me, Olivia. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Why?” I breathe.