Adriana DiMicheli reads romance novels. And not just once, either, if the folded-down corners and Post-its are any indication.
I shouldn't open them. I should put them back in the bag and pretend I never saw them.
But I can’t help myself. I have to see for myself what makes this woman hot and bothered. The book practically falls open on its own to a scene she’s underlined and highlighted. Yes,both.
“You've been in control all day,” he said, his voice low. “You don't have to be in control here.”
She shivered. “I don't know how to let go.”
“Then let me show you.”
I flip to another marked page.
“You're beautiful,” he murmured against her skin.
“You don't have to say that.”
“I know I don't have to. I want to.” His hands traced down her sides. “And I'm going to tell you every day until you believe it.”
She made a sound, something between protest and surrender. “Why?”
“Because someone should have been telling you all along and didn’t.”
I close the book and let out a low whistle.
She doesn’t just read romance novels. She fucking devours them, over and over. Paperbacks, not e-books, which tells me she wants to feel the pages, mark her favorite parts, and carry them with her so she can return to her favorite scenes.
And those scenes? They're all the same.
A man who takes control, who gives the woman permissionto stop being in charge. A man who tells her she's beautiful, who praises her, who sees her for who and what she really is.
Sheruns a company.She'srunning a crime family.Sheholds the world together through sheer force of will, never letting anyone see her sweat, never asking for help, never showing signs of weakness.
And whenshe'salone, she reads about someone taking care of her.
I carefully put the books back in the bag, exactly in the same order they fell out. Then I zip it closed and set it back in the corner like I never touched it.
The thing is... I've been holding back with Adriana. Trying not to push. Trying to give her space, let her set the pace for whatever we are and whatever we’re going to become. I’m trying to not be another man trying to tell her what to do, how to think and behave.
But maybe deep down, that's not what she needs.
She'd burn down anyone who tried to control her in any of her domains, and she'd be right to. But there's a difference between controlling someone and being the kind of man who notices when she hasn't eaten and makes her dinner, who tells her she's impressive when she doesn't believe it herself.
I've been doing that already without thinking about it. Because that's who I am.
And maybe it hits her in a way that all of these book scenes do, even though she might not be able to admit it to herself.
After a few minutes, I table those wayward thoughts and drag myself to my room to change and head for the gym. Every rep is murder. I pile on more weight, hoping it’ll chase her face out of my mind. But she’s all I see, all I can think about. And now —without me even realizing it —we’re acting out her biggest book fantasies, which makes things even worse.
Back at the penthouse, I turn on the cold shower spray and stand underneath it, willing my hard-on to deflate. It doesn’t.
So I finally give in and stroke myself off to my newesthighlight reels, despite the fact that I’m practically submerged in an ice bath. My cock doesn’t seem to mind the cold water, not when my insides have morphed into an inferno of lust. But it appeases the monster for now.
Adriana comes home at seven, looking exhausted.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun. Her blazer is wrinkled. There's a small coffee stain on her sleeve that she probably doesn't know about.
She's still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
