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‘What’s the deal?’ she asked, turning my smile into a grin.
I flicked my gaze over her. ‘You can keep the mask, as long as you lose everything else.’
It was an outrageous demand, and for a tortuous moment I worried I had gone too far. After all, I would hazard a guess she had never stripped for a man before. But something about that precedent only made me want to see her strip for me even more. I waited, as the vicious need pushed my desire to fever pitch.
Was she as brave and bold as she appeared?
The blush on her face spread across her collarbone, making her pale skin almost as vivid as her dress. I could see the pulse throbbing in her neck, could feel her wariness from across the room. But I could also see the outline of her nipples as the peaks hardened, and the pale blue of her irises disappearing as her pupils darkened with lust.
Desire crackled in the air around us, as potent and provocative as anything I had ever felt. It was a major struggle for me to remain aloof, to hide my desperation when she nodded, agreeing to the deal.
I continued to wait, aware of her hesitation, but finding it as beguiling as it was frustrating. I would let her take her time, even if the anticipation killed me. I uncrossed my arms and sank my hands into my pockets as she released the pins in her hair. The fragrant mass drooped on one side, then tumbled to her shoulders. She shook her head, and the long chestnut curls bounced.
I wanted to sink my fingers into the silky mass so badly, to drag her head back and devour the throbbing pulse in her neck, to see those hard peaks and kiss them until they swelled into my mouth, I was starting to sweat. But still I waited, curling my fingers into fists, and inhaling the sweet aroma of feminine arousal like a drowning man.
Had I ever wanted a woman as much as I wanted this one? If I had, I certainly couldn’t recall it. But then in that moment I seemed to have no past, no future, only the present moment, as the anticipation and need pounded through my veins.
She sucked in an unsteady breath, then located a zip under her arm and dragged it down with trembling fingers. The sound was deafening in the quiet room, the vague bass beat of the music from downstairs nothing compared to the throb of my own heartbeat.
I swallowed heavily as the bodice fell.
Dio, no bra.
I dragged in my own ragged breath as her breasts were revealed, the areolae ruched and pouting. My dry mouth flooded with moisture. The desire to suckle on her swollen flesh and make her moan became so intense it was painful.
She wriggled her hips to ease the satin down until it puddled at her feet. Then folded her arms over her breasts, making her cleavage swell.
She lifted her chin, her stance defiant. My heart pushed against my throat. She was stunning. Her boldness, her bravery somehow even more captivating than the sight of her naked flesh, soft and glowing in the lamplight. The thin swatch of lace shielding her sex and that damn mask were the only items of clothing she had left as she stepped out of her heels and kicked away the satin.
I cleared my throat. ‘You missed something,Principessa,’ I mocked, indicating her panties with a slight nod.
She shook her head. ‘I’m not losing anything else until you lose something too,’ she declared.
It was all the invitation I needed.
‘Bene,’I said, more than ready to strip. My skin already felt too sensitive for clothing—as pheromones fired through my bloodstream.
I flung off my tie, then unbuttoned my shirt the rest of the way with frantic fingers as I crossed the room towards her. I had lost the shirt too by the time I reached her. Her head barely reached my collarbone so she was forced to tilt it back to meet my gaze.
I settled a hand on her bare hip, felt her tremble of response. The scent of her arousal intoxicated me, as her eyes widened and she took in my naked chest, her gaze burning over the crude tattoos I had had inked into my skin as a boy, the many scars which had been the cost of that same misspent youth.
My heart punched my ribs. And for one unprecedented moment I was actually nervous. What if she was disgusted by the marks which revealed the degradation of my past?
But when her gaze connected with mine again, what I saw made my breath stall in my lungs and my heart skip several beats.
Not disgust, not even the excitement women usually responded with when they saw the evidence I could not hide of the gutter rat who had existed before I had made myself into the billionaire playboy.
No, as she blinked furiously, her pale blue eyes took on a sheen of emotion. And she lifted her finger to trace the jagged scar on my cheek.
‘Renzo, I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.
For a heartbeat I was undone—by her sympathy, her compassion. But then my stomach twisted. How dare she pity me.
I grabbed her wrist, to drag that consoling finger from my face, determined not to be moved.
Her eyes widened, but she didn’t resist.
Our chemistry might be off the charts, but this connection could only ever be about sex. If she thought she could get under my guard, she was sorely mistaken.
