Page 29 of Ruthless Grace

“You think this is a joke, Dr. Santoro?” I ask, my voice dropping into an arctic, dangerous whisper that vibrates against her collarbone. “You think you can walk into my house, refuse your brother’s arm, dismiss me at the altar, and act like you’re in control?”

“I don’t think I’m in control, Luca,” she whispers back, her dark eyes locking onto mine without a single trace of fear. “I know I am. Because no matter what you do to me in this bed, you bought a marriage, not my mind.”

“Let’s see how long your mind stays in control when your flesh betrays you.”

Gia doesn’t flinch. She tilts her chin up, her eyes burning with pure, liquid fire.

“Do your worst, Valentino,” she dares, her voice smooth as silk and cold as steel. “Show me what my brother’s debt buys you.”

I don’t take off my suit jacket. I don’t loosen my tie. I keep every stitch of my control on, maintaining total, ruthless detachment as I reach down and slide my hand beneath the silk edge of her lace.

Gia’s breath hitches sharply. Her thighs flex against my knees, trying to clamp shut.

I press the weight of my thigh between her legs, forcing her knees apart, and slide two calloused fingers straight into her boiling, slick cunt.

She is dripping wet.

Despite her razor-sharp tongue, despite her defiance, her body is already scorching hot, swollen and responsive to the sheer, overwhelming physical proximity between us.

“Look at me,” I command.

Gia snaps her gaze to mine, her jaw clenched so hard the muscles in her neck stand out. She refuses to shut her eyes. She refuses to look away.

I begin fucking her with my fingers, my pace brutal and agonizingly precise.

I don’t rush. I use the same cold, methodical dexterity I use when racking a slide or signing a death warrant. My thumb finds her swollen clit, grinding over it in tight, relentless pressure, while two fingers curl deep inside her, stretching her wet, tight walls over and over again.

Gia’s composure fractures.

A broken, breathless gasp rips from her throat. Her head falls back against the dark silk pillows, her back arching off the mattress as her hips lift involuntarily to meet my hand.

“Luca—” she chokes out, her fingers digging wildly into the fabric of my shoulders.

“Say my name again,” I growl, driving my fingers faster, harder, pushing her deeper into the sensory trap I’ve built for her. “Tell me how in control you are, principessa.”

Her inner walls clamp around my fingers in tight, frantic spasms. Her chest heaves, her plush breasts spilling over her corset with every ragged breath she takes. She is seconds away. I can feel the seismic tremor building in her, the electric coil of her orgasm winding tighter and tighter until she’s hovering on the absolute precipice of a shattering, body-cleaving release.

Her eyes flutter, heavy-lidded and dark with mindless pleasure.

“Please,” she breathes, a microscopic, helpless whisper that she probably doesn’t even realize she’s spoken.

The word hits me like a bucket of ice water.

Consider this interest on Dante’s debt. Before her crest can break, before the first wave of her orgasm can crash through her body, I abruptly jerk my hand out.

Gia lets out a sharp, agonized cry of denial, her hips bucking upward against empty air, her body left stranded on the absolute edge of the cliff.

She opens her eyes, pupils blown completely black, panting and trembling as she stares up at me in shock.

I sit back on my heels with slow, deliberate precision, keeping my dark gaze locked on her flushed, wrecked face.

“That was your first lesson, Dr. Santoro,” I say, my voice cool, level, and entirely devoid of mercy. “In this house, you don’t get to come until I decide you’ve earned it.”

Gia stares at me, her chest heaving, her lips parted as her mind catches up to what I’ve just done to her. The shock in her eyes rapidly melts away, reappearing as a searing, white-hot fury.

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t scream.

She pulls her knees together, sitting up on the silk sheets, and looks at me with pure venom.