Entering the restroom, she placed her hands on the clean granite counter, watching her own self in the mirror, the cubicles at the other end empty.
What was she doing there? In the restaurant, in her life? Why was she even doing anything? Her father didn't care one wink about her. Nobody did. And it made her angry.
She was angry because a strange man had groped her right in front of her father and he hadn't said a word. She was angry because she'd messaged the man she hated and he'd prodded her to act rather than anyone else. She was angry because she'd left that glass wall and rainy night and yet something inside her completely refused to leave it.
She was angry.
And she could see it. On her flushed face, on her trembling body, on her heated skin.
She was angry. God, she was so angry.
The door to the restroom opened, and Morana looked down, hiding her eyes from whoever had entered. The last thing she wanted was a casual chitchat with some clueless woman.
She washed her hands and pressed the cool water on her cheeks, waiting for some sound behind her as the other woman moved about. There was no sound.
Stilling, her body alert, she looked up slowly, to find her eyes ensnared with blue, blue ones.
He was there, in the ladies' room, in a restaurant filled with men and women of both their families and guns and weapons ready to be fired. Was he insane?
Morana turned on her heels, heading towards the door, the rage inside her kindling, only to find him blocking her path.
"Get out of my way," she spit out, in no mood to deal with him.
"So you can go out to your father and that dickhead?" he goaded, his voice washing over her in a way she completely did not want in that moment.
Gritting her teeth, she tried to sidestep him, only to fail. The anger simmered.
"Get. Out. Of. My. Way," she enunciated, every word hard, her tone frigid.
He didn't budge.
And she let it out.
Her fingers circled his neck before she could blink, and she slammed her entire body into his. He fell a step back against the door, not because of her strength (she knew well enough to know not to fool herself into that), but because he wanted to. His eyes blazed on hers as he tilted his head, uncaring that she could strangle him. Her fingers flexed on those corded muscles, warm muscles, and the urge to let out all her anger, for some reason, assaulted her. Because whatever the reason, he was honest about his hatred of her. She appreciated that honesty. She needed that honesty.
But she was on the edge. On an edge she hadn't known she'd been walking. She was tiptoeing now.
"I asked for one simple thing," she ground out, her mouth trembling. "I told you to stay away from me. You agreed. You gave me your word. Then why is it that I find you everywhere I turn? I'm warning you, right now, I won't give a damn about the codes. You all can die for all I care. You. Stay. The. Fuck. Away. From. Me."
Before she could even blink, her front was pressed against the door, the hand that had been on his neck twisted behind her back firmly but not painfully, her other palm pressed flat on the wood as he pressed into her back, her completely bareback, the buttons of his shirt rubbing against the exposed line of her spine with each breath they took. A woodsy, musky scent she knew was him wrapped all around her as his other hand pressed on the wood beside her own. Her body shook as she turned her face sideways, her forehead brushing against the scruff of his chin as he leaned down, his lips lined against her ear.
Her heart thundered in her chest, blood pounding in her ears. Heat infused her body, the scent, the feel, the sensations heady.
"Get one thing straight, right now, Ms. Vitalio," he murmured right against the shell of her ear, that voice – that voice of whiskey and sin – rolling down her spine in waves, spreading throughout her body, pooling low in her belly. The sensation of those lips made her chest heave against the wooden door. The wooden door that was the only barrier between them and a restaurant full of people, including her father, who wouldn't hesitate to kill either of them.
That knowledge sent another thrill through her. That knowledge that for some reason, this man made her feel like a dangerous woman; that knowledge that for some reason, she knew this man wouldn't let anyone else kill her. And she stood inside with him pressed to her, not an ounce of remorse for betraying her father inside her. The thrill was all that there was.
"I will stay away when I want to," he whispered. "Not because you or anyone else tell me to. But I've never forced a woman, and I won't now."
Morana bit her lip, realizing he wasn't touching her anywhere except where her hand was behind her back. He wasn't touching her, and she felt on fire.
"We've been honest so far, Ms. Vitalio," he murmured. "I'll be honest now. I despise you but I want you. Fuck it, I do. And I want you out of my system."
The crude way he spoke made her breaths heave faster. He continued.
"Your father's men are right outside this door this very second. You want me gone? Just say the word."
Morana stilled, her head turning towards the wood, her breaths rapid in the confined space.
"You need to make a decision."
Holy fuck. How was she supposed to make a decision with her brain fried? God, she wanted him. She'd had sex once, with Jackson, mostly out of rebellion, but it hadn't been something she'd wanted to repeat anytime soon. There hadn't been even a quarter of the heat just locking gazes with this man had. She'd never felt so heady, so carnal, so, so utterly wanton in her own lust.
And that was the crux of the entire problem. She hated him, everything he had done and every word he'd said. She wanted to kill him someday. But her body wanted him. And she wanted him out of her system. Just once.
Her father was right outside. His men were right outside. The Outfit was right outside.
Tristan Caine was inside. Behind her.
She wanted him inside her.
Morana closed her eyes, raising her free hand to the top corner of the wooden door.
And she locked it.
Decision made.
Breaths.
She could hear his breaths, right against her neck, blowing softly over her ear, heating the skin it washed over. Her neck tingled. Blood rushed over the spot, igniting it with a flame she was unfamiliar with, his exhale kindling it, higher and higher, just across that expanse of skin. Her heart stuttered, her fingers pressing harder into the wood, her trapped arm wanting to squirm. She barely contained the urge, standing still except for her heaving breasts, her fingers tingling with the need for touch, for sensation, hungry for contact with warm male flesh she could feel behind her, not pressing into her but so, so present.
She turned her face towards his.
Breaths.
A scent of scotch and chocolate, mixed in a heady concoction she wanted to taste on her mouth. Her eyes flickered down to his lips, tracing them with her gaze, seeing the ripe fullness of it, making her teeth want to sink in them, test their plushness, their softness. Her eyes went to the scar at the corner of his lip, peeking out from under his scruff, making her tongue heavy, wanting to lick it, to taste it, feel it. Her gaze lingered on the scruff around his mouth, wondering if it would scratch against her skin, itch, or maybe burn, leave the marks of his devouring for the world to see, red and pink skin burning with the memory of his hunger.
The world definitely couldn't see.