My breath catches. “Stop.”
“It gives me the right to touch you.”
“No.”
He places one of my wrists on top of the other, holding them both easily with one hand. His other hand lands on the curve of my hip—and it burns. I shut my eyes tight as if I can deny what’s happening that way. That only sharpens my other senses, the feel of him, the heat.
“Clara,” he murmurs. “It gives me the right to kiss you.”
My lips are trembling, and I can’t deny that I want it. And that I hate it, this wanting.
He kissed me only once before, only minutes before I left. I was breathless, a mixture of young desire and fear. Part of me believed that my love for him would conquer what we faced. The other part of me knew that I would never see him again. It turns out that I was wrong on both counts.
His lips are surprisingly soft and achingly sure. They touch mine with a deliberation that can only be possessive. He can take this much time because he owns me. Because I’m his to do whatever he wants with—and he wants my lips, over and over again. He presses his mouth over mine in a way that would almost be chaste if it weren’t for his hand on my hip or his hot length against my stomach.
His tongue swipes across my lip, sending sparks through my body. I shiver, and he does it again.
It feels like I’m on fire from the inside out, flames of need licking my body on the inside, the heat and pressure of him on the outside. And the worst part is how I want to give in, to let him scorch me. I would never be the same again. I would never recover, but God, how sweet the pain.
Want and need war within me, and I let out a sigh. He uses the opportunity to slip inside my mouth, to spread me wider for his invasion. I imagine him saying, It gives me the right to use your mouth. I should hate him, but somehow it only makes me hotter.
He explores my secret places with terrible patience. I’m the one straining for more, faster, deeper. His tongue slides against mine, a sensual swipe that makes me moan. On the next glide his body rocks into me—only once. Once is enough. Now I know how it will be when we’re together, his body moving against me, invading me, a rhythm I’ll never forget.
My breasts feel heavier than they’ve ever been, the fabric constraining them too tight and harsh. The cami is thick around my breasts, but even so my nipples harden and press against the restraints. It might as well be lace holding me, whisper thin but textured. When Giovanni’s body shifts in front of me, the fabric of his suit rubs against them. My breath catches, and without meaning to, I roll my body, pressing my breasts into him.
He groans into my mouth. “Christ, bella. What you do to me.”
At least I’m not the only one breaking apart. I’m floating, flying. I’m breathing hard, but he is too. It’s like we’ve run a marathon instead of kissing for a moment. He’s too close, too large. Too sensual. I have no defenses against him, especially when his thumb slides under the hem of my cami, a lone and soft slide against my bare skin.
A shudder racks my body. “Gio, I don’t know—I feel strange.”
His laugh is unsteady. “You need to go.”
“I…what?”
He turns just enough to rest his palm on the wall beside my head. His other hand falls away from my hip. I feel the loss acutely, the air almost freezing in comparison to his touch. “You need to take your dog and leave this room.”
My body aches for something only he can give me. I lean toward him instinctively, knowing he can assuage me. It actually hurts, these knots he’s tied inside.
“Go,” he says roughly. “Unless you want me to fuck you on this rug right now. Leave.”
The word fuck jars me out of whatever trance I’ve been in.
Oh God, no. No no no. This is all wrong. Why did I let him touch me like that? Except that’s not the question I need to be asking. Why did I like it so much?
And even fully aware, I still want him to touch me again.
The only thing stopping me is the room. The rug. The office and all the things I’ve never told a living soul. I’m not about to start by telling my captor, even if he does make my body yearn.
It takes me longer than I want to coax the dog out from behind the globe. The entire time, Giovanni stands against the wall, silent and still. I wrap a shivering Lupo in my arms and hurry up the stairs, where Romero waits outside the door to lock me inside.
Chapter Thirteen
I think about the way his lips felt against mine—hot and sweet, sensual and somehow comforting. Sharp desire mixed with an ethereal relaxation. I could have stayed like that for hours, for days. I could have kissed him forever.
Which is really messed up, all things considered.