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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Hand shaking, I knock on his bedroom door. I’m apprehensive about this bargain and if he’ll honor his agreement to let me go. But I’m also fearful.
Will I want to leave him?
“Enter.” His command is faint through the door.
I push into his room and am relieved it’s empty, running water signaling Sandro is in the adjacent bathroom. I exhale loudly and glance around.
His room is dark, in stark contrast with the rest of the villa. Black painted walls, a black satin duvet covering his enormous king-size bed, a tall distressed dresser in black and gold hues. It’s a shock to the senses. It shouldn’t surprise me, knowing him as I do. But what catches my attention the most, does just that.
A picture framed beautifully in black leather is displayed on his dresser.
I tread over for a closer look.
Three people are in the photograph. My attention is immediately drawn to an incredibly attractive man seated casually in a chair. He’s wearing a dark navy suit and a pink dress shirt that’s unbuttoned at the throat. Arms resting on the chair and a leg crossed at the knee, he smirks into the camera like he holds the world’s dirtiest secret.
His chair is flanked by two younger men.
I blink, and blink again in disbelief as I examine the broad, devil-may-care smile of the man on the left. “Sandro?” I whisper. He’s also in a navy suit but holds the jacket over a shoulder. The shirt beneath is entirely unbuttoned, his flat abs and muscular chest on full display. His hair is longer, more unruly than his typical style. His expression’s filled with humor, like he’s on the inside of a hilarious joke.
The man seated must be his father. Sandro mentioned once how he and his brother were dropped off at his father’s door when they were four and Mr. Beneventi was only twenty. The Beneventi men are quite the studs, aren’t they?
My attention turns to the third man, to the right of Mr. Beneventi’s chair, and I gasp.
Because I’d recognize that fierce scowl anywhere—this is Sandro. Same dark hair but neatly groomed. Suit worn like he stepped out of an Armani ad. Stiff and formal, and clearly displeased with having this family portrait taken.
“Twins,” I murmur. “Renzo is his twin brother.”
“Did you come to fuck …” I jump at the sound of his voice. “… or snoop?”
I spin around, and my knees immediately go weak. Before me stands Sandro, without a stitch of clothing on.
Heat rushes to my face.
And, for the slightest second, his expression mirrors his father’s before turning predatory.
He stalks toward me.
I step back until I’m against the dresser.
With one hand, he removes the picture and resets it on the dresser. With the other, he unzips my uniform until it falls open. He slides a palm over my right breast and lightly squeezes. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk across this room, let alone away from me.”
“Wait,” I gasp, totally unprepared for his onslaught.
“I’m done waiting.” He thrusts a hand between my clenched thighs and drags two fingers across my slick folds, then raises his digits and draws a wet line across my cheek. “And so are you.” His low, gravelly tone fills the air. “Get on the bed.”
Pulse pounding, I scurry away from him and head for the door.
He slams into me from behind and pins me to the wooden frame. “Good girl.” He nips my earlobe. “Feel how hard you make me.”
I still at the sensation of his erection gliding between my cheeks, the thick head pressing against my tight bud. “Oh,” I utter, suddenly very, very aware. But my excitement’s laced with dread. Am I ready for this?
He shifts his hips, withdrawing then gliding forward, tormenting me, teasing me, daring me to say no, but never breaching me.
“I could come like this, all over that luscious ass, like some randy teenager. Decorate your skin. Mark you as mine.” He cups a breast, and I swear his erection grows. “Or I spread my seed all over your fucking fantastic breasts.”
I arch back toward him.
