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Oh god.I have to bite my lip hard enough that I taste blood to hold back the sound that nearly erupts from me. I’mso wet, wet in a way that I know has nothing to do with swimming, slick and hot, and when my finger bumps against a hard knot of flesh between my folds, I nearly cry out with the jolt of pleasure that bursts through me, as startling as an electric shock, butgood.
So good, that I can’t stop myself from doing it again, and again—rubbing my finger over that sensitive spot. It’s swollen and stiff, that same jolt coursing through me each time I brush my fingertip over it, circling, rubbing, my knees going weak and watery as I watch Alessio. His hand is moving faster now, stroking with quick, sharp movements that seem to match his breathing, and my hand starts to take on a similar rhythm. Watching him seems to be making it better somehow, intensifying the sensations, and my gaze flicks between his pleasure-taut face and his stroking hand.
I wish he’d taken his clothes off.There’s something arousing about seeing him sitting there in a suit, doing something that I know heshouldn’tbe doing in his office, in the middle of the day, in front of an open window—but I want to see more of him. I want to see how muscular he is, if his chest is smooth or not, if he has that fine line of hair running down to his cock—what all of his strong, virile, masculine body looks like. I want to touch him, taste—
My eyes go wide as I see him jerk in the chair, his hips lifting off of it as he starts to fuck his hand, thrusting into his fist in a way that I thinkmustbe mimicking the way he’d thrust into a woman, the way he’d thrust intomeif I were on his lap right now, legs spread, all the hot, wet slickness coating my fingers coating that thick length instead, and then—
I stare in open-mouthed shock and curiosity as somethingburstsfrom his cock, sticky-looking fluid spurting over his fingers and hand, making a mess of his suit trousers as he keeps stroking feverishly, his mouth open on a silent groan of pleasure, as if it feels so good that he just doesn’t care. As if he can’t think about anything other thanhowgood it feels. As I watch, fascinated at the display in front of me, I feel a sudden cresting pleasure in my own abdomen, deep inside of me, responding to both the quick movement of my fingers and what I’m seeing. It’s so strong that it almost frightens me, an intense welling of sensation that almost makes me want to pull my hand away, but I chase it instead, my teeth buried in my lower lip as I grip the edge of the doorframe, leaning against it for support as my knees buckle, and a feeling like nothing I’ve ever experienced or imagined crashes through me.
I don’t know how I manage not to make a sound. It’s blissful, incredible, making me feel for a moment as if I might pass out from the intensity of it. I’m gasping, my heart racing in my chest, and as I see Alessio blink his eyes open and stare at the mess he’s made of his trousers, all I can think isif it feels this good, I think I know why everyone is so concerned with it.
I have a sudden, mortifying image of pushing the door open and going to kneel in front of him, taking his cock in my hand and whispering to him that I’ll clean him up, that I’ll lick up every drop that he’s spilled. It’s so vivid that my knees buckle again, more of my own arousal leaking onto my fingers, that pulsing desire still there.He’s going to see me any second,I realize with panic as Alessio starts to get out of the chair, no doubt looking for some way to clean himself up, and I yank my hand away, scurrying away from the door and towards the stairs before I can be caught.
Once safely back in my bedroom, door shut and locked behind me, I lean back against it, eyes closed and trying to catch my breath. My heart is still beating a quick, hard pulse in my chest, the vivid image of what I saw Alessio doing burned behind my eyes, my fingers still wet from my own orgasm. I suddenly have a much, much better idea of how all of this works, and my mind is racing with vivid imaginings of my wedding night—ofthatinside of me, helping slake the burning, aching need that I can still feel pulsing faintly in my veins. Of hands touching me, skin, and—
What else would he do? Would he use his mouth?I feel dizzy at the thought of that, of Alessio’s mouth between my legs, replacing my fingers, how it might feel. I’ve barely given a thought to sex before this, but suddenly, I feel as if I’m on fire with the desire to know, to experience all of this, to explore, and to have all of my questions answered.
And I wantAlessioto be the one to answer them. I don’t want any other man touching me. I wanthim. The man who was supposed to be my husband, the one who, for reasons that I don’t fully understand, is pushing me away, trying to give me to someone else, when all I want is him.
I trust him. I know he would never hurt me. That he would be gentle with me, careful, that he would take care of me. I even think, despite his caution that I shouldn’t expect too much from my future husband, that he would be faithful to me.
What if I could seduce him?The thought feels dangerous—but thrilling, too.What if I could convince him to marry me? That he’s what I want?If I could overcome his objections, if I could make him want me the way I want him—maybe I wouldn’t have to marry someone else.
Maybe it could be Alessio and I, living here, together in happily wedded bliss. I wouldn’t have to leave my home or let myself be touched like that by a stranger, by someone I don’t love or even necessarily want.
My father always knew best. He always knew what I needed to be taken care of, to be happy. He thought that Alessio would be that for me—and I think so, too.
The only one who still needs to be convinced is Alessio.
—
I take extra time getting ready for dinner, putting on a light, flowy, chiffon maxi dress that’s cut a little lower in the front than some of my other dresses, with thin straps crisscrossing over my back and tiny flowers scattered over the white fabric. It looks sweet and feminine and flattering without being too obvious—I think—and I make sure to put on a little bit of makeup, too. I’m already flushed from being out in the sun today, and I never use foundation, but I dust a little rose gold shadow over my lids and put on mascara, tapping a light rose stain onto my lips and slipping rose gold diamond studs into my ears. My hair takes the longest—it’s long and thick and has just enough curl to be unwieldy at times, but I manage to braid it, looping it around my head and pinning it in place. My heart beats a little faster in my chest, thinking about Alessio’s face when he sees me, hoping to see some of that same desire there that I saw this afternoon.
What was he fantasizing about? What was he picturing? It can’t have been me—he’s made it plain that, right now, at least, he doesn’t want me. It’s up to me to convince him otherwise. But I feel a burning twist of jealousy in my stomach at the idea of it being anyone else—of him imagining some girl back in New York, for instance. I hate the idea of him picturing some other girl kneeling between his legs or bouncing on his lap. I know he’s been with other women—hemusthave been—but I hate the idea of that, too.
I want him to feel that way about me. I want him to hate the idea of me with someone else—kissing them, touching them, letting them do all the other things to me that I can’t even quite imagine yet. I want him to be just as jealous of me—not trying to find someone to pawn me off on so he can be freed of the responsibility. I know that’s not entirely fair to think, but I can’t help it.
It feels like too much to hope that I might be able to make him love me—butwantingme, even being convinced to go along with my father’s will and marry me… seems possible.
Alessio is already waiting at the dinner table when I come down, a glass of wine in front of him. He’s scrolling through something on his phone, but he quickly sets it down when he hears my footsteps—and for one brief second, as his gaze sweeps over me, I think I see the startled flicker of desire that I hoped for. His eyes sweep from my face downwards, catching on my cleavage for a moment and then sweeping lower, all the way to where the skirt sweeps my toes and back up. I don’t know if he even entirely means to do it—I see the way he quickly swallows, his gaze darting away as he reaches for his glass of wine. There’s a decanter on the table as well, and an empty glass in front of where my place is set.
“I don’t know if you were allowed to have wine,” Alessio says, clearing his throat as I sit down. There’s a tension in him that I haven’t seen before, and I wonder if it’s because of what he did in his office today, or because of the way he looked at me just now, or something else altogether. “But I think considering everything that’s happened recently, whether or not you have a glass is the least of our concerns.”
Something in me is slightly miffed at the idea of Alessio deciding whether or not I’m allowed to have a drink—that it’s his business at all. I reach for the decanter without a word, pouring myself half a glass, and one of Alessio’s eyebrows rises.
“I suppose that’s my answer, then.”
“My father didn’t treat me like a child.” I pick up the glass of wine, taking a pointed sip, making sure to let my lips linger on the edge for just a moment. I want him to notice, but his attention is dragged away by the salad course being brought in.
“I don’t think of you as a child,” Alessio says firmly, as the china salad bowls are set in front of us, and he reaches for his fork. “But youaremy ward. My responsibility. I want to make all of this as simple as it can be for you—for things to change as little as possible. For there to be as little—upheaval as I can manage for you.”
“My father died, and I’m going to be married off to a stranger.” I take another sip of the wine, feeling my appetite fade a little as I look down at the Caesar salad in front of me. “I think it’s a bit late to be trying to minimizeupheaval.”
“Point taken.” Alessio lets out a slow breath, picking up his own glass again. “I want you to know that I, personally, am in no rush. I would stay here as long as necessary to make sure that you were safe and protected, and that your future was secured and happy. It’s the Family that may put pressure on both you and me sooner rather than later. It’s important to me that you know that.”
I nod, tracing my fingers nervously up and down the stem of my wine glass. The conversation isn’t going exactly how I had hoped it would. I want to flirt with him, arouse him, and make him think about being the one to marry me, but the problem is that I don’t knowhowto flirt. I don’t think any of the tactics I’ve read about in books work all that well in real life, if I had to guess, and I’ve never had any experience withactualmen. My encounters with men have been limited to Lorenzo and meeting my father’s associates at dinner parties, and none of them would have ever dared so much as look at me with any kind of intent.
“How was your day?” I blurt out, before I can think too hard about what it is that I’m going to say. “After our conversation, I mean. How was, um—how was work?”
