Page 45 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

Mine.

My Bonbon.

I take another sip, the burn hitting, but it doesn’t do what it’s supposed to. It doesn’t dull anything. If anything, it wipes off the fog, bringing everything into focus.

I set the glass down and push up from the sofa, restlessness chewing into my bones.

I start walking.

Across the length of the office, past the desk I haven’t touched, past the glass that reflects me in fragments when I don’t look directly at it.

I clasp my hands behind my back, my fingers locking loosely as I turn again, but the room doesn’t come back into focus the way it should.

Because it’s not this room I’m seeing anymore.

It’s that one.

The hotel suite. The bathroom. The way the air had felt when I slid inside her and fucked us both to oblivion.

We had sex everywhere that night.

Against the cold marble in the bathroom, the bed that never stayed untouched for long. The center table, the wall that held her when she couldn’t hold herself anymore. The wardrobe she was pressed into like there was nowhere else to go.

Even the floor.

No space was left untouched.

My cock reacts slightly, the memory not fading the way it should.

I remember the marks.

The ones I left. The ones she didn’t stop me from leaving.

There’s a brief, unbidden thought of whether her skin still carries them. Whether there are faint traces of where my teeth bit too hard, where I didn’t care to be gentle.

Because I know my body still carries the faint line beneath my ribcage, that’s now barely visible unless you know where to look. I can still feel it if I think about it long enough. The drag ofher fingers, across my skin, like she needed to leave something behind too.

I exhale slowly through my nose, trying but failing to force the memory back into place.

The door slides open and I halt in my tracks.

“You left.” Atelia saunters in, closing the door behind her, her tone light but her eyes already searching, already dissecting. “Abruptly.”

“I reassigned the meeting.”

“That’s not what I said.” She stops, folding her arms across her chest.

“What do you want, Atelia?” I exhale slowly, then face her.

She studies me for a second longer than necessary, like she’s deciding which version of me she’s dealing with.

“You don’t walk away from a client like that unless something’s off.” She steps further into the room. “And you don’t get distracted, at least not in the middle of a negotiation.”

“I handled what needed to be handled.”

“You avoided it,” she counters smoothly.

“I received an update that requires my attention,” I shoot. “Time-sensitive.”