Chapter 77: You are Wet
Carmen
The rest of the day went by faster than I thought it would.
Nico headed home, and just like before, I followed him.
I had wanted to speak—to ask questions, to break whatever this silence between us was—but there was something chalky and brittle about the quiet. So I turned my gaze back to the window, watching the world blur past, saying nothing as we sat side by side in the backseat.
The drive didn’t take long.
When we got back to the estate, Nico stepped out first. Martin followed closely behind him, a thick folder of documents tucked neatly under his arm. I stepped out right after, my heels clicking softly against the pavement.
Questions circled in my mind, persistent and sharp, but one look at Nico’s rigid posture made them feel heavier, harder to voice. He didn’t want to talk—it was obvious.
We headed inside.
Like always, Nico’s room was to the right, and he didn’t hesitate to walk toward it. My eyes lingered on his back—the straight line of his shoulders, the controlled tension in his movements.
I could go to my room or I could follow him.
What worried me wasn’t just the silence, it was his mood. Even at his best, Nico wasn’t easy. And right now, he was far from his best.
I hesitated only for a second at the entrance before deciding. I followed him.
He went straight into his study, Martin trailing behind him. I ignored the guards stationed by the door and walked in as if I belonged there, because, in a way, I did.
Martin placed the folder on the table. Nico dismissed him with a brief nod, and once the door clicked shut behind him, the room felt quieter.
I settled into a chair by the table, crossing my legs slowly, watching Nico as he shrugged off his jacket. He folded his sleeves with deliberate precision, exposing strong forearms, before heading toward the bar.
"What do you want to drink?" he asked.
The first words he had spoken to me all day.
I looked at him carefully, searching his face for something—anything, but his expression remained controlled.
"Wine," I said.
He nodded once.
"Rum it is."
I swallowed, watching him reach for the bottle, my fingers tightening slightly against the arm of the chair.
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" I asked plastering a smile on my face one that didn’t reach my eyes.
He paused briefly, then glanced at me, head tilting slightly, those sharp eyes locking onto mine.
"Will it work?"
There was nothing playful in his tone. It was too serious. Too direct.
Before I could answer, he poured the drinks anyway.
He picked up both glasses in one hand, the bottle in the other, and walked toward me. He set the bottle down on the table and handed me one of the glasses before taking a slow sip from his.
I didn’t drink.
I just held the glass, feeling the cool surface against my palm, my eyes fixed on him.
"You think our mutual enemy is related to the Lowell family?" I asked, forcing the conversation into safer territory—something logical, something distant.
Anything but this tension.
Because it was there. Thick. Tangible.
It would be foolish to pretend I didn’t feel it not when his eyes seemed glued to mine.
Yes I was attracted to Nico, I wanted him. I did, and maybe that was exactly why I knew better than to let anything happen.
He slipped one hand into his pocket, standing beside me instead of sitting. His gaze stayed on me, unblinking, unreadable and yet somehow, I could read it too well.
The desire there made it hard to swallow. Made it harder not to remember the taste of him in my mouth.
"They could be," I continued, my voice steadier than I felt. "That proposal is too good. There has to be a catch."
My heart began to beat faster as he leaned forward, placing his glass on the table.
Then his hand reached for my chair and pulled it closer to him. The movement was smooth. Controlled.
"If they’re trying to kill all the mafia lords, then there must be a reason, right?" I pressed on, even as my breath began to shallow. "What are they trying to achieve?"
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he took the glass from my hand and set it aside.
My pulse jumped.
His hands gripped the arms of my chair, caging me in as he bent down, lowering himself until his face was inches from mine. Close enough that I could smell the rum on his breath. Close enough that it made my head spin.
"Nico, we should talk—"
He didn’t let me finish. His lips crashed into mine.
The kiss was immediate. Possessive. His hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me closer as his mouth claimed mine, firm and unyielding. My lips parted instinctively, and he took advantage of it, his tongue sliding into my mouth, deepening the kiss.
The taste of rum lingered on him—sharp, intoxicating.
He was slow at first, Too slow.
A frustration built inside me, hot and insistent, and I responded without thinking, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him closer, kissing him harder.
His hands moved.
One dropped to my chest, fingers working quickly at the buttons of my blouse. I didn’t stop him. Didn’t even think to.
The fabric parted.
His hand slipped inside, pushing my bra down, exposing me to his touch. His fingers closed around my breast, firm, deliberate, and it took everything in me not to moan right then.
His other hand slid lower.
Between my legs.
I gasped as his fingers pressed through the fabric of my pants, heat pooling instantly at the contact. My body reacted before my mind could catch up, arching slightly, wanting more.
Needing more.
His hand slipped inside, past the barrier, finding me.
"You’re wet," he murmured against my neck, his voice low, rough.
The words sent a shiver through me.
"You want this."
It wasn’t a question.
His fingers moved, and I inhaled sharply, my grip tightening on him as sensation spread through me, intense and overwhelming.
"Yes—" I started, but it came out as a breath, barely formed.
"Say it," he ordered.
His fingers pressed deeper, curling in a way that made my body jolt.
"Yes!" I gasped, louder this time, desperate, the word spilling out like a plea.
Because it was.
I was already too far gone.
My head tipped back as his mouth moved to my neck, his lips brushing, teeth grazing just enough to make me shudder. His fingers moved with purpose, finding that exact spot that sent waves of pleasure crashing through me.
My breathing grew heavier, uneven.
"More," I whispered, my voice trembling.
"You’re close?" he asked.
I nodded quickly, my legs parting wider, inviting him, needing him.
Everything in me tightened, building toward something sharp and inevitable.
And then—
He stopped.
Just like that.
His fingers slid out of me without hesitation.
The sudden emptiness hit harder than anything else.
My body froze, still caught in the echo of the pleasure that almost was, my breath coming in shallow bursts as I blinked up at him, disoriented.
Frustrated.
Yet he just stood there, watching me.
