Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Then dessert arrives.
The waiter sets down a delicate lemon olive-oil cake in front of her. It’s light and golden, dusted with powdered sugar and served with fresh raspberries and a thin ribbon of crème fraîche. She picks up her spoon and takes a small bite. Her eyes close for a moment and she makes a soft sound—barely audible, almost a sigh.
I can’t stop watching her.
The way her lips close around the spoon, the faint shine of sugar on her bottom lip when she pulls it away. The candlelight catches on her throat as she swallows. My gaze traces the curve of her neck. She notices. Of course she does. Her eyes flick up to mine, and she offers me a spoonful of dessert.
“Here,” she says softly.
I lean forward and taste it. The cake is bright, citrusy, melting on my tongue with just a hint of olive oil richness. She takes another bite, then offers me the next. The intimacy of sharing her spoon, tasting what she just tasted, feels indescribably intimate. My cock feels hot and hard.
She appears unaware of the storm building inside me. Or maybe she knows. I don’t know. All I know is I’m getting harder by the minute, and my cock is straining against the fabric of my trousers. I shift in my chair, and my mind is already racing ahead. Tonight, when we’re finally alone, how will she look naked in my bed, blonde hair fanned out across the pillows like pale silk, skin flushed and glowing under the light from my bedside lamp? I imagine the way her body will arch when I touch her, the way her thighs will part for me, the soft, broken sounds she’ll make when she finally lets go—gasps, moans, my name on her lips like a prayer.
I think of her trembling under my hands, my mouth, my cock. I’m going to make her forget every cold, empty night she ever spent in that bastard’s house. I’m going to ruin her for anyone else, the way she’s already ruined me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
VIOLA
The drive home feels noticeably different.
The city lights slide across the windshield like golden ribbons, and the silence between us is softer. But it crackles like electricity. I find myself stealing glances at him when I think he won’t notice. His hands rest easy on the wheel. He’s immensely interesting. That’s the word that keeps circling in my head now—interesting. The way he listens when I speak, the way he insisted on me choosing where I wanted to eat tonight. More important than that he told me his story without flinching, without hiding. No one has ever done that before. Not Salvatore. Not anyone. It unsettles me and pulls me closer at the same time, like I’m standing on the edge of something I both want and fear.
Soon the sleek glass tower of his high rise comes into view like a dark blade. The moment the underground garage swallows us, my nerves come rushing back. And I remember, tonight we have to consummate this marriage. The thought is exciting and terrifying all at once. My pulse thuds in my ears, loud enough that I’m sure he can hear it. For one second, I toy with the idea of feigning tiredness. Faking a small yawn and murmuring that the long day has finally caught up to me, then slip away to bed before he can say anything. But I know that would be childish of me. He’s been patient all evening, more patient than I ever expected from a man like him, and something tells me he’d see straight through the lie.
Those eyes of his miss nothing.
We step into the private elevator, and the doors slide shut with a soft, almost intimate chime as it seals us in together. The mirrored walls throw our reflections back at us—wow! Who are these people? My eyes are wild and his are shadowed. I keep my voice steady.
“Which way to the bathroom? I need a shower.”
“Head up the stairs. There are five en-suite bedrooms. Pick whichever one you want. They’re all yours.”
What? I can pick my own bedroom?
The doors open into the penthouse, cool air wraps around me immediately—crisp and scented with the flowers from the foyer. I head upstairs, my heels quiet on the polished oak steps. The first bedroom is one of those all-white designs. It’s quite clinical, almost sterile. Too cold. Not for me.
The second bedroom is done up in shades of black and gray. It is impressive, sleek, modern, and clearly the master bedroom. The ghost of Ricci’s scent lingers in the air. I glance at the massive bed, the open skylight in the ceiling, and shiver slightly. Closing the door quickly, I keep going.
I open the door to the third and find my dream bedroom.
It’s perfect.
Roses, the color of twilight, in a subtle damask print, cover the walls. It is rich and soothing. The king-size dark wood bed with its crisp white linen contrasts beautifully with the wall. It feels as if I’ve stepped into a calm forest with a bed in it. I love it instantly. I close the door and kick off my heels. The cool wood floor feels soothing against my bare feet. The en-suite bathroom is just as beautiful. Thick white towels are stacked neatly on open shelves. There is a glass-enclosed rain shower with multiple heads, and a deep soaking tub set against a pink marble surround. The blinds are drawn, so I cross the room and pull them open.