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“Yes, Mr. Vittorio,” I say, sinking into a luxurious red leather office chair. I watch him as he continues to frown at the screen. “Miss Clifton said to tell you she sent me up at once.”
“Quiet.”
I close my mouth, wondering what I did to piss him off.
I examine him closely, wondering if anything’s changed about his appearance. I don’t think so.
He’s Italian with the kind of rugged, age-refined handsomeness that gives me butterflies. An air of experience and a wealth of knowledge and something darker, something hidden away.
It’s all magnified by the impeccable cut of his expensive suit that contours effortlessly to his well-built frame.
His hair, dark as the night, is styled to perfection, a few strands rebelliously falling over his forehead, adding a touch of charm to his otherwise stern demeanor.
His eyes, a deep brown, almost black, radiate intensity. I often imagine getting lost in those eyes, wondering if they would soften with love when he looked at our children - children who would have his eyes and my smile.
It’s stupid. He’d never have children with me. I bet he sees me as just a dumb kid.
He looks up at last, a flicker of a smile appearing on his lips. “I’ve been watching you for a long time, dolcezza,” he says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. “Thought it was time I told you why.”
“I…” My mouth falls open, and I stumble over my words. “What do you mean, watching me?”
He circles the desk, his movements deliberate, almost predatory, as he closes in on where I sit.
He motions for me to stand. His closeness is overwhelming, sending waves of heat through my body.
I can’t help but be aware of every inch of him, of the way his breath might feel against my skin, of the strength in his hands that are now mere inches away.
“I told myself I was too old for you,” he says, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I know nothing about modern music, TV, movies.”
“Me either,” I say. “More of a Victorian literature fan myself.”
“You should come see my library sometime.” His lips flicker. “I told myself it was fate that closed the wine shop. Kept you from me. It was for the best. My obsession was becoming overwhelming. But then you took the job here, and I couldn’t resist. I had to see you again.”
He reaches forward and undoes the top button of my blouse, his fingers on the soft skin underneath before moving up to my throat.
“So beautiful,” he says. His eyes flash darkly. “I often wondered what you’d sound like moaning my name.”
He flicks open the next button, his fingers tracing a line along the top edge of my bra. “I remember how you used to look at me from behind that counter. I know how much you wanted me. I bet you thought I wasn’t interested.”
He moves his hand until it brushes over my left nipple, making a moan slip out of my lips before I can stop it.
“Your inexperience would have been your downfall. My world, it is not a place for innocents to dwell.”
“I’m not a kid,” I snap at him. “I’m nineteen.”
“And I’m forty. And I bet you’re soaking wet for me. If I slipped my fingers into your pussy, would I find you wet? Answer me.”
“Yes,” I whisper as I wonder when I’ll wake up from this dream. “You would.”
A red phone on his desk rings, slicing through the moment like a knife. He hesitates, his eyes locked with mine, conveying a storm of emotions.
With a reluctant yet urgent motion, he turns away to take the call. “This better be fucking important,” he snarls down the line.
A moment later, he strides back around the desk, staring down at the computer screen, his expression darkening.
“Fuck,” he mutters quietly. “I knew it. The son of a bitch.”
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
