He hooks two fingers into my panties and tugs them down around my thighs. They’re actually more restrictive this way, biting into my skin when I try to spread my legs. I can’t help it when he pushes two fingers around my clit on either side. I fight the bonds at my wrists, at my legs. Even the bra feels like bonds, restraining me.
Giovanni gently pinches my clit between his fingers, and I squirm, still supported by the iron band of his arm from behind. He dips his head to nip at my collarbone. I gasp, moving against him in a rhythm I know his body understands. He’s hard and burning hot even through the fabric of his slacks. I press my tummy against him, wishing I could feel him somewhere else.
“Christ,” he mutters, hands tightening.
It’s a delicious squeeze, and I shudder in his arms. “I’m ready. I’m ready.”
He shakes his head slowly, and I could cry. You aren’t in control here, bella. And I feel out of control, my body burning hot and moving against him on its own, my mind a haze of kisses and warmth. I’ve never felt a man inside me before, but there’s a new emptiness, my inner muscles clenching around nothing.
“I plan to use you all night, understand? I’m going to touch you everywhere, taste you everywhere.” He pulls something from his pocket, small and black. I flinch when a silver blade flips open.
He places the pocketknife beneath the lacy bra strap, dull metal against my skin. A quick slice and the cup leans away from my breast. He cuts away the other side and the material drifts to the floor.
I flush as he draws a fingertip over the slope of my breast. He catches a nipple between his forefinger and thumb, pinching softly. He saw me the other night in the conservatory, but it was dark there. While not completely bright, there’s enough light from the lamp by the table that he can see me clearly. His touch is achingly thorough, circling the full weight of my breasts, teasing my nipples to hard peaks.
He explores my shoulders and back and stomach with the same intensity, as if mapping my body’s terrain. When I shiver, he stops and teases out another reaction—and I realize he is mapping me. He finds the places that make me sigh and shiver, that draw a whimper from me, that drag a groan from my throat.
He turns me away from him, and I feel a large palm caress down my back. He strokes my butt softly, finding every inch of the plush curves. Then his finger presses between to the tight knot of skin.
I yelp, pulling my hips away to escape.
“Shhh,” he says. “Not tonight.”
Even the suggestion leaves me shaken. I’m not as scared of him touching me there as I am of facing away from him. Then he does something even scarier. His hands are gentle as he bends me over the bed. He runs light touches down the side of my body and cups my butt.
He’s not hurting you. I can’t help the way I freeze up or the slight moan of despair that escapes me.
He stops moving behind me, and I feel his concern in the silence that follows.
“Clara?” he asks, his tone careful. “I’m not going to make you do this. I won’t touch you back here.”
His words are gentle. I know he’s not making me do anything right now, but panic claws at my throat. It’s too alike, being in this house, being bent over. I fight the bonds at my wrists as hard as I can, struggling to get free. There are horrible gasping sounds coming from somewhere, and I realize it’s me.
Spots dance in front of my eyes. I can’t move, can’t breathe.
I find myself in Giovanni’s arms, right-side up. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s only his hands holding me now, that he’s keeping my arms down but only so I don’t flail. When I quiet, he releases me, using his hand to soothe me, cradle me, love me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my temple. Some of the words he says in Italian, others I understand. “You’re okay. You’re with me, and I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”
My breathing evens out in slow, painful degrees. I clutch at the fabric of his shirt, not caring that I’m naked, not caring that he’s my enemy. Right now he’s the only solid thing in a world made of waves and blistering sun. He’s my anchor.
My voice is shaky when I manage, “I’m sorry.”
“No, bella. Don’t be. It’s my fault. I went too fast. I wasn’t careful with you.”
I don’t want to explain that it wasn’t his fault, because then I’d have to explain whose fault it is. He sounds so genuinely regretful that it’s hard not to spill the truth. “Can we pretend like that didn’t happen?”
His laugh is rusty. “I’m not sure I can forget that. Not ever.”
This is exactly why I didn’t want him to know. He would look at me differently. And I’m afraid that if someone else knew, I would look at myself differently too. “Please.”
He pauses, contemplative. His surface is calm, but I can sense something hot roiling within him. “Clara, I have to ask you. The way you reacted just now. It makes me wonder… Has anyone ever hurt you?”
A ripple of fear runs through me. No no no.