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She just walked into the open-air atrium from the South Entrance.
Amelia Volini.
She’s here.
She showed up.
I stagger backwards as my heart almost stops with the shocking realization that Amelia accepted my invitation, made a choice I never truly believed she’d make.
And now suddenly the beast in me growls inside, spreads its possessive claws and takes control of my beating heart, my throbbing cock, my aching head, my burning balls.
She hasn’t seen me yet, I realize as I stay silent and still against the gray concrete wall. I watch Amelia quietly as she looks around nervously, touches her big straw hat, adjusts her oversized sunglasses.
She’s in a white sundress that hugs her curves and shows the subtle outline of a white bra-and-panty set. She’s pure as a new morning, glowing with a light that ignites every part of me, sending me into a dangerous mix of blissful love and brutal desire.
I scan the faces around her, sweeping my gaze to the entrances and exits, looking for bodyguards or chaperones. Amelia’s not in any imminent danger this far from Florida. Nobody would even recognize her up here—especially not with her thick brown hair all tied up and hidden beneath a big straw hat that belongs at the Kentucky Derby.
My throat constricts as I swallow hard. Fuck, I’m hard all over, every muscle tensed, my balls tight, my cock almost fully erect at the manic excitement that she’s actually here, actually considering giving herself to me.
It’s just a desperate grasp for adventure before she submits to her future as Ralph Romero’s wife, I remind myself. Play it cool, scope it out, donottell her how you really feel. She catches a whiff of the obsessive, possessive beast that’s wanted her for years and she’s gone. A rabbit like Amelia isn’t going to be able to look into the eye of a wolf without being scared shitless.
Now I’m moving towards her, my feet gliding like I’m floating through the crowd, my body magnetically drawn to hers. She still hasn’t seen me as she gets in line at a drinks counter, digs into her little shoulder-bag for her wallet, pulls out a twenty just as I stride up beside her.
“You know they’re going to card you,” I say coolly, startling her so badly her sunglasses go crooked. “And I don’t think Anthony Volini wants his daughter to get busted with a fake ID so far from the friendly Florida cops.”
“I . . . I’m only getting a Coke,” she stammers, her face blushing red like a beet, her fingers trembling as she fixes her comically big sunglasses that can hide her identity but not her beauty. Not from me, at least. “And I don’t have a fake ID. Besides, I’m going to be twenty-one in three weeks.”
“You’re also going to be Ralph Romero’s wife in three weeks,” I say softly, doing my best to control the growl of jealous rage that tightens my throat. She stiffens, is about to say something, but we’re at the front of the line now and the girl behind the counter is looking at us expectantly.
“Two Cokes,” I say when I realize Amelia is still in a mild state of shock. Perhaps the realization is hitting her now. Maybe she’s only just understanding that she’s here alone with me, that her being here is an implicit acceptance of an invitation that even an innocent virgin knows is dark as night, dirty as sin, dangerous as fuck.
And maybe that’s why she’s here.
I pay for the Cokes with a hundred, grab the cardboard cupholder with the two drinks, slide my free arm around Amelia’s waist, lead her away from the counter without bothering to get the change. She’s trembling beneath my touch like a scared kitten, and I know my priority is to make her feel safe right now, communicate clearly that nothing needs to happen if she’s scared, that it’s all right to turn around and walk away.
Even though it’s going to be fucking hard to let her walk away now that I’m so close to her body, my fingertips digging gently into her soft sides, her hips brushing against me as we walk in lockstep towards one of the side-courts that’s almost empty because it’s a first-round doubles match with no-name players.
All the courts are open-air, and the expanse of blue sky and bright sun makes Amelia relax beneath my touch. I lead her to the VIP section, which is a sea of empty green seats, with just a few spectators down at the front rows—probably family and friends of the players.
“Sit,” I tell Amelia, leading her to the second-to-last row and gesturing with my head, knowing she needs some direction right now, some guidance. She does what I say, sitting in the seat I point out, making sure her sundress is smooth beneath her ass, pressing her thick bare thighs together as I fill the seat next to her with my big body. “Take a drink,” I say, handing her one of the Cokes, watching as her lips close around the straw hesitantly at first before sucking the sweet soda with petite little gulps.
My throat tightens and I force my gaze away from her lips, trying not to imagine that sweet mouth hungrily sucking my fat cock as I fist her hair and push her head down over my lap. Of course, when you try not to imagine something, it means you’re thinking about it, and my cock stiffens to full mast in my pants, tenting my trousers to an obscene peak.
There’s no hiding what my body wants, but I’ve sworn to play it cool, so I begin to adjust my position so she won’t freak out at the obvious sign of my obsession.
And then a shadow falls over my bulging crotch.
It’s Amelia’s big straw hat.
Looking straight ahead at the tennis court, she coolly places the hat over my tented crotch. Her lips tremble with a suppressed laugh, and I crack a grin when I feel the tension break like a dam caving in.
She’s still trembling, but it’s the kind of involuntary shiver which means the adrenaline is draining from her system. Adrenaline is the hormone of fight or flight, so if it’s leaving her system, it tells me something.
It tells me she isn’t fighting her fear anymore.
And she isn’t going to fly away.
She’s mine.
