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CHAPTER EIGHT
LIVIAWASDIZZYwith desire. The way that he held her, the way that he kissed her. She couldn’t even bring herself to be angry at the high-handedness inherent in him moving all of her things into this beautiful penthouse. She had seen a great many spectacular hotel rooms, suites and apartments over the years. Had been living in a palace for nearly a decade. But still, she was never immune to the luxury around her. Because she could never forget to be grateful for comfort when she had been so uncomfortable for so long.
But this was all somehow different. Because it wasn’t comfort in the way she understood it. There was a lushness to it, almost a sensuality. As if every texture in the room called out an invitation to sex, every surface a potential place for her to spend her desire for him.
She was not naïve.
She had known what sex was for a long time. Her people were earthy. And then on top of that, she had spent so much time on the street she had seen any number of women selling themselves to buying men. She had been groped and harassed and chased down by those seeking the same thing from her. Had been accosted by men in suits offering money in exchange for lewd acts. And while she had managed to escape any personal experience, she knew about sex. Both the violence that could come with it, and the pleasure.
Of course, knowing about and being prepared to experience were two very different things. But she was about to. With him.
It had always had to be this way.
He would have to be the first.
Because if she didn’t know what it was to be with Matteo, then she would never be with anybody.
It just wouldn’t happen.
Because he had formed her every thought about attraction, so he would have to be the one to introduce her to the pleasures of the flesh.
But all of her justifications went out the window when his mouth moved over hers.
And then, he kissed her neck, moved down to her collarbone, pushing the spaghetti strap of her dress off of her shoulder. And then the other. Her bodice fell, and her breasts were exposed. They were not particularly large. But then, they weren’t small either. Just sort of unremarkable, she thought.
Everyday breasts.
But he let out a sound, a growl, that reverberated inside of her, and seemed to suggest something entirely different.
“You are beautiful,” he said, his voice rough.
And it echoed that night three weeks ago, when he’d said that to her for the first time, in the limousine, before they went into the hotel.
“Do you really think so?”
“I do,” he said, looking at her. “You know how hard I fought to keep myself from ever... It would have been a grave sin against you, Livia.”
“Tell me,” she said, suddenly desperate. “Tell me how long you thought I was beautiful.”
“It is a shame to me,” he said.
“But it is water in a desert to me.”
“Very well.” He growled, lifting her up off the ground, and she let out an undignified squeak. Then he put his hand on one of her breasts, drawing his thumb slowly over her nipple, his gaze filled with intent concentration as he watched himself touch her. “I remember the night I first asked you to be my assistant. And you were wearing red. I do not know why.”
“It was my birthday,” she whispered.
“How foolish of me.” He put his hand on her face, his eyes intense. “To not remember that. But I do remember your dress. I thought you beautiful. And impossibly young. So...vulnerable.”
“I had stabbed men by then. I was hardly vulnerable.”
“And then when I would catch you examining the tiles in the ballroom, as if you were looking for any speck of dirt there that might defy you.”
“Why would you know something like that?”
“Because of the way your brow would increase when you concentrated. And I thought you beautiful.”
“Oh.”
