Page 56 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

And I know it's mutual.

I see it in the way her fingers curl slightly, the way her shoulders stiffen before she forces them back into place.

“Since you want to be so cryptic and play wise sage with words, I’m out.”

She turns.

And I move before the thought fully forms.

My hand closes around her wrist, pulling her back in one swift motion. The folder slips from her grasp, papers scattering across the floor in a soft, useless protest as I pivot, placing myself between her and the door.

The contact hits harder than I expect, cutting straight through me, like something dormant just woke up all at once. My pulse kicks, heat flooding fast, blinding in its rush.

I’ve imagined this more times than I’d admit. I've imagined the feel of her skin. But imagination doesn’t come close to the real thing.

“Get your hands off me!” she snaps, her voice breaking through the moment as she twists against my hold, trying to pull free.

“The word is still no, baby,” I murmur, low, not rising to match her energy, not chasing her anger.

“I’m not playing your sick games with you.” She shoves me, her palm hitting my chest with more force than I expect.

I absorb it.

My gaze stays on her, fixed, taking in every flicker, every shift, every contradiction she’s trying to outrun.

“Sick? Yes. But a game? No.” My hand drags up her arm, slower this time, my fingers tracing the line of her skin like I’m reminding myself she’s real.

That she’s here. Not something I imagined into existence over the years.

She stiffens under it.

“Don’t,” she warns, but it’s not as harsh as before. There’s a break in it now, something thinner, something trying to hold its ground and slipping.

I don’t stop, because I remember her. Not just the way she looks. Not just the sound of her voice when she’s angry, when she’s pushing back.

I remember how she responds to me.

The moment where resistance turns into caving. The way her body betrays her before her mind catches up. The way she fights hardest right before she feels.

And I see it flickering under her skin now.

Her breath catches.

“So the dinner?” I throw, watching her carefully.

I don’t miss anything.

Not the way her eyes slip shut for a second when my hand finds her neck. Not the way her breath catches when my thumb brushes just beneath her ear. Not the way her body leans in, barely there, almost nothing, but enough.

“My answer is still no,” she gulps, but the words falter in delivery. Heat climbs up her neck, flush spreading across her skin, betraying everything she’s trying to keep locked down. “And I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I’m not the same girl, Robert.”

“No,” I agree easily.

I let my gaze move over her slowly, not hiding it, not softening it, letting her feel exactly what I see when I look at her curves.

“Neither am I,” I finish, stating it like a fact.

Her lips part slightly and that's all it takes.