Page 21 of Unlock My Heart

The bathroom door is now closed with me on the other side of it, and I lean against it for support. This night—no, this man—has completely thrown me off kilter.

My eyes land on the huge bed in the middle of his bedroom, which does nothing to help ease my jagged nerves. I move across the room to the closet, flipping on the light as I step inside the expansive walk-in.

Ahh, heaven.

Tailored suits. Crisp dress shirts. Fine Italian silk and leather. Everything is neatly organized and color-coded.

Before I get accused of snooping—guilty—I focus on finding something to wear. A search of the built-in dresser nets me a hoodie and a pair of boxers, and I slip those on. The boxers are falling off me, and so I roll up the waist three times. Doesn’t really help, but it’s the best I can do.

As I’m walking out, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Cheeks flush. Eyes wide. I’ve never felt more…what, exactly? Shocked? Nervous? Excited? Traumatized? Thrilled?

You want to see how this plays out as much as I do.

He must be right, because I find myself plopping down on the couch. With my arms wrapped around myself, I inhale deeply. Fabien’s clothes smell deliciously masculine and spicy and…

Safe.

You’re safe with me.

Maybe I’m crazy, but after the exhausting events of tonight, I believe him.

Fabien enters the room, having his private turn in the shower, and my throat goes bone dry. Grey sweatpants outline a sizable penis that I felt while seated on his lap. A white T-shirt hugs his muscular upper body.

His lips curl into that little smirk as his baby blues lock with mine.

An out-of-control fluttering sensation happens between my legs, and I clamp down on my internal muscles.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes. Sorry about that,” I tell him, my cheeks flaming as I avert my gaze.

“Don’t apologize. It was a normal response,” he assures me, taking a seat beside me.

“You weren’t upset,” I point out, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie.

“I grew up in this world; you didn’t.”

“The mob world.” The words hang heavily in the air.

Beneath the man’s easy-going demeanor, there’s an undercurrent of something else.

Something dark.

Killing those women was nothing compared to what this man has seen and done, I’d bet big money on it.

Again, why that doesn’t give me at least a second thought, I still don’t know.

“We don’t talk about that, or what happened tonight, with anyone else, alright?” His gorgeous eyes pierce into mine.

“Alright.” I swallow a lump in my throat.

“Good girl,” he praises, and there goes that fluttering between my legs.

A knock on the door sounds, and he hops up and crosses the room. Opening it, a guy around my age enters with take-out bags and a drink tray.

“Il pasticcio è stato ripulito?” Fabien asks something, taking the food and drinks from him and placing everything on the coffee table.

“Sì. Michele non era felice,” the newcomer replies. Michele, as in Mr. D’Amico, but that’s all I can understand.