Page 102 of Ricardo

I am trying to erase the memory of any other mouth on hers. Any other hands on her skin. I am trying to erase the memory of that bastard completely.

On the outside, I keep my hands gentle, my lips soft.

Inside, something vicious is pacing.

Every word she said is echoing in my head.

Ashamed for wanting. Less for having such base emotions.

I want to find him.

The thought is so quick and violent it startles even me. I am a man who believes in control, in strategy, in waiting for the right moment. But the thought of putting my hands on the man who made her feel ashamed of her own desire... there is no control in that thought.

There is only a primal, possessive rage.

A possessiveness that, for the first time in my life, I do not try to deny.

My tongue slides against hers, and she meets me thrust for thrust. She sighs softly and moves against me.

That another man put those thoughts inside her and left them there to fester and grow makes my blood run hot and dark.

I am not a particularly good man. I know that better than anyone. I have done things with these hands that would make decent people step away from me. I have hurt men. Threatened them. Broken them when breaking was required.

But this?

This slow dismantling of a woman until she cannot feel desire without shame? Until she apologizes for wanting, flinches from kindness, and hears his voice in her head at the moment another man touches her?

That is a cruelty that was done deliberately. There is no mistaking that.

It takes patience to do that to someone. Repetition. Attention. A thousand small corrections carefully placed so she doesn’t see the cage being built until the door is already locked.

Harrison did not simply lose his temper and wound her once.

He trained her to wound herself repeatedly.

I want him in front of me.

I want ten minutes alone with Harrison Winthrop the fucking third.

Five. I wouldn’t need ten.

I want to hear him explain himself with my hand around his throat and see how his base desires come out when he’s begging for his life.

But none of that belongs here.

None of it belongs on my face.

None of it belongs in my hands.

So I kiss her like she is something he never had the sense to value. Like every desire he taught her to doubt deserves exploring. Like her wanting is not a flaw to be managed, but a gift placed directly into my hands.

I cup her face as if she is precious, because she is, and I pour every ugly thing I want to do to him into the tenderness I give to her instead.

My hands drift down her throat, my thumbs tracing her pulse points. I feel how fast her heart is beating. The life in her is such a beautiful, vibrant thing.

My hands continue down, over her collarbones, and then lower still. Still, she clutches her dress protectively over her, an armor

I take my hands away from her.