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I hang up on him, switching my phone off. I turn to face Emma.
“Did he really kill your first girlfriend?” she asks, sounding shocked.
“I was fourteen. Luca was twelve and jealous because he had a crush on her. Told her he wanted to talk to her about something. That was the last time anyone saw her. I will not let him take my father’s money and burn through it like matchwood.”
“Adrian, I can’t marry you. I just can’t.”
I lean toward her, watching her inhale sharply, her pupils dilating as I lift her chin so she’s staring into my eyes. “You didn’t run very fast, did you? You also didn’t use the key hanging by the front door.”
“I… I didn’t see it.”
“Admit the truth. You want me to fuck you. You’ve wanted me since we first met. I’m good at telling truth from lies. Tell me you don’t want me.”
“I… I don’t.”
“You’re a bad liar, Miss Rose.”
I lean closer and kiss her.
5
EMMA
I’m painfully aware of every nuance of my own body language, every subtle cue betraying the tumult of emotions churning within me—a storm of fear, desire, and something deeper, something that seems to resonate with the very core of him.
He’s kissing me. My obsession. My boss. The devil. His lips are pressed against mine as he holds me in his arms.
I’m battling with myself, torn between the instinct to pull away and the undeniable pull of my attraction towards him.
This kiss isn’t merely an act of possession; it’s an exploration, a declaration that we’re in this together, amidst the chaos that brought us together.
Gradually, I find myself softening, the tension in my shoulders easing as I lean into him, my hands tentatively reaching up to grasp his arms.
It’s a surrender, yes, but not one born of defeat—rather, it’s a conceding to feelings that have been simmering beneath the surface, a reluctant acceptance of the connection that binds us.
I hate that he knows me so well, reads me better than I read myself. I do want him. Despite everything that’s happened today. I do want him. Did I see the key by the front door? I don’t even know. All I know was I was glad when he caught me.
As we part, my whispered “I still hate you” doesn’t sound like hate at all. It’s a declaration of the turmoil within me.
“I know,” he whispers back.
He traces the curve of my cheek, his fingers skimming over my lips that still buzz from our intense kiss. A shiver runs through me at his caress, his eyes locking with mine, offering a silent promise that somehow, everything will be alright.
His hands continue their journey, gliding down the elegant line of my neck, each touch leaving a wake of goosebumps. I catch my breath as his fingers find the straps of my dress, the anticipation of his next move sending a thrill through me.
As he carefully slides the fabric over my shoulders, exposing my skin to the cool air of the room, I feel both vulnerable and cherished.
There’s a softness in his gaze that makes me feel protected, even as I nervously bite my lip, unsure of what comes next. My dress falls to the floor, pooled at my feet, leaving me in my underwear.
His eyes remained fixed on my own. With practiced ease, he unfastens the clasp of my bra, allowing it to fall away. My breasts emerge, their peaks already betraying my arousal.
A surge of something akin to possessiveness washes over him, a primal need that he seems to feel, to claim me as his. He growls as he kisses my neck.
My breath hitches, overwhelmed by the anticipation building within me. I’ve never experienced this level of pleasure before, but tonight, he seems intent on showing me what it feels like to be worshipped.
His hands continue their exploration, tracing circles over the gentle slope of my breasts. Each touch is deliberate, a dance between pleasure and torment.
I find myself arching into his hands, seeking more contact, more of the sensations that only he seems able to provide.
