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A vibrator?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I’m breathless by the time we’re seated at the restaurant. Sandro drove like a madman, recklessly accelerating his black Maserati on the flat roadway running along the coastline. Treating it like his own personal racetrack. His security detail must have been pulling out their hair in the three trucks that trailed us.
The restaurant, Grotta Sardinia, is a small, intimate open-air grotta built into a cliff overlooking the sea and only accessible by a steep stone stairway. The descent was worrisome; I’m wearing a daring red gown with a plunging neckline and expensive three-inch heels. Also worrisome is Sandro’s touch; his arm anchored around my waist and fingers brushing across places they shouldn’t be. To his amusement, I gasped and whimpered the entire way.
I never saw this sinfully proud side of him; the pleasure he derives from showing me off while arousing and punishing me.
Fortunately, aside from staff, the restaurant’s empty. “Did you reserve the entire place?” I ask in wonder as we take our seats.
He grunts.
“Isn’t that expensive?”
“I can afford it.”
My eyebrows arch. “These men must be important.”
“Not particularly.”
God, could he be any vaguer. I open my mouth to ask another question now that I’ve got him talking, but then catch sight of the view.
It’s breathtaking. A U-shaped harbor is just below, bustling with yachts, sailboats, and small vessels. A gentle tide rolls in as the sun dips over the open sea.
I died and went to heaven, with the devil pretending to be an angel by my side.
“It’s spectacular.” And romantic—except my enthusiasm’s tempered by the fact he hates me. Why am I here?
“Don’t speak unless I signal it’s okay.”
I stiffen. There he is, the monster I despise.
“Yes, sir.” My reply’s ripe with sarcasm.
He unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap before speaking. “Remember the chaise in my office?”
“Yes.”
“Offer any more smart-ass responses or disobey me again, and I’m going to spank your ass until it’s pink.”
I adjust my deep V neckline in an attempt to calm my racing heart. He’s a powerful man, a mafioso boss. A murderer. A kidnapper. I’ve recklessly submitted to his will far too many times. I can’t give in to the wicked urgency his threat sparks inside me.
“And keep that fucking dress over your beautiful breasts or you won’t sit for a week. No one gets to see them but me.”
I resist rolling my eyes. Would he still spank me if I flashed the table?
Except …
“What does the chaise have to do with your punishments?”
A wicked grin spreads across his lips, and completely, utterly shatters me. Why did he turn out to be so horrible? How can he still be so beautiful that I ache for what will never be?
He watches me and waits. Until I get it, and immediately visualize everything he’s threatening to do to me on that naughty piece of furniture. Bending my body over the hump, raising my ass in the air, lifting the hem of this gorgeous dress, and spanking me, counting out my punishments as his palm lands on my ass.
My cheeks flush pink.
His grin broadens.
