I watched him strip with the dangerous grace of a man preparing for a fight he knows he will win. The silver light from the city caught the hard lines of his body, illuminating the sheer, terrifying strength that was now entirely focused on me.
When he finally came down over me, he didn't crash; he eclipsed me. His weight was a heavy, blissful, demanding pressure. His hands returned to my body, exploring without haste, not searching for my pleasure, but dictating it. He kissed me, hard and deep, drowning out the frantic beat of my own heart with the slow, steady rhythm of his overwhelming control.
His mouth broke away, trailing a searing path down my jaw and throat. I arched up, desperate for the contact, but he halted the descent abruptly. He lifted his head, making sure I was forced to look at him, to see the dark, consuming heat in his eyes.
"Easy,mia Bella," he rasped, the Italian a low, binding cord. "My pace. Not yours."
The correction was sharp, but the effect was immediate and dizzying. The denial didn't frustrate me; it amplified the craving, teaching me exactly how to beg without uttering a word.
His hands finally went where I was aching for them to go. He slid one arm beneath me, lifting my hips just a fraction, and the other,large and deliberate, spanned my inner thigh. His thumb brushed the most sensitive, coiled part of me, a single, feather-light stroke that was utterly agonizing in its control.
I gasped, a strangled sound that was half pain, half plea. My back bowed, pushing me higher against the command of his hand. The city's silver light, filtering past the window, was all I could see—a silent witness to my undoing.
He watched my face, every flicker of my expression, ensuring he was measuring the precise moment before I shattered. He wasn't rushing toward his own relief; he was methodically dismantling mine, piece by terrifying piece.
His fingers pressed in, two sharp points of contact, applying deliberate, grinding pressure that stole the breath right out of my lungs. My entire body tensed, the pleasure so sharp it felt like pain, like the delicious consequence of finally letting go.
He leaned down, his mouth near my ear, his breath hot. "Tell me, Isabella. Tell me what you want."
The words were a direct order for surrender. My throat was too tight for speech, but I managed to choke out a single, broken word: "You."
It was the only answer he was willing to accept.
With a final, shattering movement of his hand, he drove me over the edge—a sudden, violent peak that left me gasping and clutching the sheets. But he didn't stop there. He used my climax as an anchor, a leash.
He settled between my legs, his hips heavy, his expression unreadable in the dark. He shifted, his body now demanding entry. I was still trembling, still unraveling, when he took a deep breath, looked me in the eye, and without a single wasted moment, drove himself home in one forceful, dominating thrust.
The collision of our bodies was explosive, a gasp from both of us instantly swallowed by the night. He paused, buried deep, forcing me to feel the full, magnificent pressure of him, the absolute finality of his possession.
This wasn't intimacy. This was a hostile takeover. And I had signed the papers.
Chapter 20
Morning comes too bright. For a while, I lie there and watch her sleep. The light touches her hair, and I have to fight the urge to wake her only to see those eyes open for me.
Sofia’s laughter comes down the hall a moment later, high and impatient. The sound drags me out of bed faster than any alarm ever could.
By the time I finish my shower and dressing, the bed is now empty, and I hate the sight of it.
The kitchen smells like espresso and syrup. Sofia is standing on a chair, a crown of construction paper glittering crookedly on her head.
“Papà, it’s today!” she says, arms flailing with excitement. “It’s my play! Bella’s coming, right?”
Isabella looks up from the table, mug in her hands, and smiles at her—soft and certain. “Of course I’m coming, Principessa.”
That should make me happy. It doesn’t.
“No,” I say.
Two heads turn toward me. Sofia’s mouth drops open; Isabella’s smile fades into something dangerous.
“She’s staying home,” I add.
Sofia frowns, confusion washing over her little face. “But—”
“Go find Nicole,” I tell her gently. “Tell her we leave in ten minutes.”
She hesitates, then scampers off down the hall, the paper crown bobbing as she runs.
