Page 77 of Diego

A kiss against my shoulder, maybe.

Or perhaps I invented that part.

I have no idea.

Everything after the moment I first lost consciousness is hazy, wrapped in exhaustion and warmth and the strange safety of being held while I was too tired to question why I was allowing it.

Which means this is how we ended up here, curled up together.

I lower my hand very slowly.

There has to be a way out of this.

A dignified one.

Something that allows me to leave this bedroom, find my clothes, and repair whatever is left of my career after I spent the night having sex with the man who can fire me and make sure I never work again.

I carefully lift Diego’s arm, but it doesn’t budge.

I try again, using both hands this time.

His arm tightens around me.

My eyes widen.

No.

No, no, no.

I stop moving.

Behind me, he makes a quiet, sleepy sound and presses his face closer to the back of my neck.

My entire body tenses.

His breathing evens out again.

Still asleep.

I stare straight ahead.

This would almost be sweet if it were happening under literally any other circumstance.

Instead, I am naked in a multimillion-dollar property that does not belong to either of us, being spooned by one of the owners of my company after spending the previous night doing things that would make an HR department burst into flames.

I have made mistakes before.

This may be my fucking masterpiece.

The arm around my waist shifts again. This time, the body behind me does too.

I freeze with one hand still resting on Diego’s forearm, caught midway through another attempt to escape without waking him. His breathing changes first, losing the slow rhythm of sleep, and then his face moves against the back of my shoulder.

“Buongiorno,” he murmurs.

His voice is rough with sleep and so damn sexy with that accent.

Of course Diego Conti wakes up sounding like that. The cherry on top of the fucking cake is that he wakes up sexy as all hell.