Layla
“Aldo, what’s wrong?” Had he taken some kind of drug?
The man in my bed was definitely Aldo Marcello—those chiseled cheekbones and strong jaw, the plumped lips and long black lashes, the scarred, muscled body, could belong to no other. But it wasn’t him.
“Nothing’s wrong.” He leaned in towards me, like maybe he’d kiss me. My heart raced, raced, raced at the proximity of him, raced at the feel of his hard, warm body so close to mine. At the familiarity of it.
Mine. He was mine.
And I wanted nothing more than to close the distance between us—
But this wasn’t him. I placed a palm against his chest to hold him back. Study him, even as my body yearned for his. “You don’t look right.”
He looked high—eyes glassy and out of focus, skin too hot, breaths shallow, heart racing against t
