The Fabrizio Bride

Chapter Two

"I did not run away."

"You did from my perspective."

She swung her feet out and stood, using the door for support. When her legs wobbled again, he cursed, scooped her into his arms, and climbed the stairs to the front door.

"I can walk!"

"Uh-huh. Tell that to the pavement when your face hits it."

Pushing inside, he strode toward the study that overlooked the lake. He'd intended to place her on the leather couch and retreat to the desk, but after a slight hesitation, he sat with her on his lap, his hand nestled at her nape, beneath her braid. He found himself wanting to unwind it and spread out the heavy strands to dry, to massage her neck and shoulders.

Gritting his teeth, he counted to ten to stop himself. If he allowed Sarika back into his life, they'd end up right back here.

Their time as lovers had been too crazed. Too turbulent. He'd felt like he was always fighting himself and her to get above the desire, the need. He didn't want that kind of chaos in his life. He'd had enough of it in his childhood before his parents had died—in a car together for the first time in years, driving to his college graduation.

Grown-up Sarika was his kryptonite. She alone could turn him into a mindless lunatic, someone driven to act rather than choosing the best course of action—just like his father. And the last thing he wanted was to end up like Antonio Fabrizio.

And yet, no one aroused him the way she did, or was able to make him laugh and forget himself for a while.

He knew he should move her to the other end of the couch, but his bones felt weighted down.

Closing his eyes, he savored her warmth. It would take the barest movement to initiate a kiss, which would lead to more kisses, until their bodies were joined together. God, how he wanted that. He was already rock hard against her, and when she squirmed on his lap, he almost groaned.

She peered up at him through her lashes. "You still want me." It was a statement not a question.

"Yes." He ground out the word, and she leaned back to glower at him, causing his gaze to drop to her damp breasts, outlined against her light-colored T-shirt. Her nipples jutted up at him insistently. An arousing sight, but more than that, it made him feel possessive, jealous.

"Damn it, Sarika. You're not wearing a bra. You were running off in the middle of the night, barely dressed, with nowhere to go. How am I supposed to protect you? Anyone could have seen you like this."

"For starters, I don't need your protection. And I can go topless if I want to, let alone braless. It's no longer your concern who sees me like this."

Denial beat hard in his chest and his hand swept down her body to clench her hip. Their eyes clashed, full of the turbulence that had so defined their relationship.

"Rafe, this is—"

"I know." He could feel the passion pounding through her body—the same pounded through his. "Were you running to him?"

"Who?"

"Berrucci."

"No, I wasn't running to Lorenzo. I wasn't running to anyone. In case you didn't notice, I was running away from you."

"Well, you didn't get very far, did you?" His tone rang with a perverse kind of satisfaction, which he knew was crazy. He should have been cementing the distance between them, not letting his heart and body get involved again.

She gazed at him, seemed to weigh something in her mind, before she said, "Rafe, you have to let me go."

He knew what she meant. It was a physical and emotional letting go. He agreed with her. Until he'd seen her again today, basked in the warmth of her presence, he'd thought he had let go, but now everything within him screamed to keep holding tight.