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And so damn tempting, I don’t know what to do. My hands tighten around her shoulders, and I turn her in place, taking her face in my hands. How am I supposed to resist her? How, when she is every beautiful, perfect thing rolled up into one alluring little package. Her eyes dart over my face, and she sinks her teeth into her lip, but she might as well be stroking my cock because that’s how it feels; that’s the electric jolt that runs through me at the sight of her hesitation.
I have no choice, do I? I have to do it. I have to taste her lips, have to lock myself with her even in this small way. I lower my head, brushing my tongue against her plump little mouth before claiming it with my own. She stiffens at first but only for a moment, only as long as it takes surprise to dissolve into something deeper, something that leaves her melting against me in an instant.
I stroke her soft cheeks with my thumbs before my hands slide lower, over her throat, her shoulders, down her arms, and back up until I’m cupping her tits through the dress. The material is thin enough that I feel her hard little nipples threatening to poke through, and the faintest brush of my thumbs over them leaves her whimpering, leaning in for more.
It’s not enough. I need more, too, so much more. Visions swirl in my head, visions of pleasure, illicit and dangerous, visions of me pinning her against the wall and fucking her in this dress, popping her cherry with a hand over her mouth to stifle her cries.
“What are you doing?” she whispers when I push her up against the wall before plunging my tongue deep inside her mouth again until she moans.
I love hearing her do that, no less than I love knowing I’m the one making her do it.
Her back hits the wall, and right away, I drop to my knees. She only puts up the faintest fight when I begin lifting the dress over my head.
“You shouldn’t,” she whispers.
If I wasn’t so determined to taste her pussy, I might point out she hasn’t said she doesn’t want me to. It would be a lie if she did, anyway.
And sure enough, she’s slick, practically dripping onto my tongue when I touch it to her sweet little lips. She gasps like I shocked her, her thighs already shaking, but that does nothing to stop me—on the contrary, it only makes me drive my tongue deep into her slit, lapping up every drop of her nectar.
“Oh, my god,” she rasps, and I know if I were to look up at her, the sight would make me harder than I already am. All I can do is imagine pleasure washing over her face as I eat her with abandon, feasting on her, delighting in the strangled little whimpers she can’t hold back. Knowing there are people outside the door, maybe in the room adjoining this one. I’m sure that must be going through her head, too, and all it makes me do is take her clit between my teeth and flick my tongue over the tip.
She stiffens, stops breathing, and a flood pours from her pulsing hole. One which I happily allow to coat my tongue, lips, and chin. Addictive, all-consuming. I’m going to need more of this, more of her.
And I’ll have her once she puts this dress back on, and we say our vows.
The spark of anticipation the thought brings me is dangerous.
She’s gasping for air once I stand and straighten the dress out. “Yes,” I whisper, wiping my chin with the back of my hand. “This is the dress.”
All she can do is nod, slumped against the wall, probably wondering what the hell just happened to her.
I’m wondering what’s happened to me, too.
21
ALICIA
Well, at least the house doesn’t feel so much like a tomb anymore. Now it’s more like a train station, with people constantly walking in and out at all hours of the day. There are all kinds of deliveries coming in, too, and of course, I’m not allowed to know what any of them are.
Honestly, I don’t care very much about that right now. I’m willing to accept having no say in anything that goes on in the house since it’s not my house anyway. It’s not like I want to be here. And I have no intention of staying for very long, either. This supposed wedding is coming up, but there’s no way. There’s just no way we’re going through with it. I need to believe it’s all nothing but a bunch of threats and empty promises.
At least I’m able to walk around the house again without being locked in here. I doubt that’s any sort of kind gesture on Enzo’s part. He’s probably worried I’ll start screaming and banging on the door and attract attention from deliverymen or whoever is always coming and going. I can’t bring myself to care very much about his intentions. It means having a little bit of freedom, even if I still can’t leave the house.
I have to wonder as I’m getting dressed if the whole point of taking me shopping was with this in mind. Did he know there were going to be more people coming to the house now? Probably. And his grandfather probably arranged the whole thing, too. So Enzo figured we should be prepared for company, meaning I had to wear something other than oversized dress shirts if I was going to be seen by anybody other than my supposed fiancé.
Now, I button a brand-new pair of jeans and an impossibly soft blouse that cost more than anything I’ve ever worn. I wonder how I’m supposed to eat in this thing without ruining it. How do rich people exist in the world with so many fine things that could easily be ruined?
That’s an easy question to answer. They have enough money to buy more.
That’s on my mind as I walk downstairs in hopes of making coffee and finding something for breakfast. I’m pretty sure I gave myself away a little bit while we were shopping—I caught him looking at me funny more than once and finally figured it was because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut over how expensive everything was. I’m supposed to be from a powerful family, but I was acting like a poor girl. I need to inhabit this life I accidentally got myself into by pretending to be somebody I’m not. Which means walking around like I’m comfortable wearing an entire tuition payment like it’s the kind of thing I do all the time.
Enzo’s having a conversation with a pair of men in dark clothes, the three of them standing by the front door. He offers a distracted wave before going back to their huddle. Well, I guess it’s better than him demanding to know what I’m doing walking around. He has to keep up appearances, too. The outside world isn’t supposed to know I’m his prisoner.
There are a bunch of unmarked boxes by the front door, more deliveries. What the heck could it all be? What are they preparing for? It has to be for the wedding. A wedding I have no say over. No chance to do my own planning or anything like that.
But it’s not a real wedding, and anyway, it’s not going to happen. More than anything, I need to believe that. This is not actually going to happen.
Am I only fooling myself by thinking that way? My hands shake a little as I fix a pot of coffee, and I have to stop myself and take a few deep breaths to keep from panicking.
