“Tell me again,” he murmurs, hands sliding slowly up my stomach to cup my breasts, thumbs rubbing my nipples through the thin cotton of my blouse. “That you want me.”
My breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut. It isn’t difficult. I do want him. So badly I’m aching at the heat of his breath against my neck. So badly that this one touch has me wet, throbbing.
But something about his voice is newly familiar: the dare. He’s testing my limits again.
And fuck—I like it.
“Tell me you want me,” I say softly, bracing myself against the drawing table, releasing my pencil as he unbuttons my blouse, sliding rough, warm hands beneath the fabric. His skin against mine is dizzying, sending a tremor through my knees.
“You are my servant,” he says, voice low against my ear. “You don’t command me.”
“If I only obeyed, if I only did as you asked, would you be happy?”
To my astonishment, he chuckles, teeth grazing my earlobe. My breath is ragged. I can barely think. I don’t care anymore why I’m here, why he wants me here. All I want is to do what we did last night. I want to learn everything his body can teach me. I want that blinding, gasping pleasure again, no matter the cost.
His hand slides down my thigh, the other beneath my blouse. He hikes my skirt to my hip, slides his fingers between my thighs. “You don’t have to say a word,” he growls, and I feel his stiffness against me. “I can feel how much you want me, Dani.”
“I can feel how much you want me,” I say, but my voice is threadbare, ragged as his fingers find me, gliding in smooth, practiced circles. I try and fail to swallow a moan.
And then he releases me. I grip the edge of the table, unable to breathe. He stands some feet away, studying me. He’s more beautiful than ever with a little color in his cheeks, with his hair mussed and his eyes lit with want. So bare and transparent it makes me want to get on my knees for him.
“I don’t know you, do I, Dani?” His beautiful mouth is quirked with amusement. In the morning light, he’s soft around the edges. More real and less terrifying than I think he’s ever been. “If you’re to be my wife, I ought to, don’t you think?”
I find I’m smiling, though I try not to. It won’t do to show that I like that—the way he talks to me, the way his eyes seem to peel off every layer of clothing. “Yes,” I say, not because I think it’s what he wants to hear, but because I think, suddenly, it’s true.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
I gently close my blouse, peaked nipples showing my desire through my shirt. He smiles rakishly as I wrap my arms around myself. “OK.”
“OK? That’s it? No questions? No protests?”
I smile. Shake my head.
“Get dressed. Meet me downstairs when you’re ready. And Dani,” he adds, as he moves into the hall, “it’s cold out there. Perhaps some underclothing, to keep you warm?” His eyes go pointedly to my breasts, and I flush violently.
I still see his smile long after he’s left me.
* * *
“No driver today?” I ask, surprised when Dario doesn’t meet us outside. Instead, Santo opens the passenger door of a gorgeous, gleaming black sports car I couldn’t name if I tried.
“Not today. I want privacy.” His smile is sharp as he closes the door and gets in. It smells of leather and his cologne inside, of man and power and wealth. Weirdly, I find I like it. “You look lovely.”
“Sabine,” I say, by way of explanation. She’s been ordering me clothing left and right, and so long as it’s comfortable, I don’t mind so much. I’ve never been much into fashion, but I like the way Santo looks at me in the finery. I like the way he takes it off of me. “The snow is so beautiful.”
“Does it snow where you’re from?”
“Yes, but not like this. I love the way it looks, in the mountains like that.” I gaze wistfully out the window as he drives. He’s a swift, confident driver, one hand slung on the wheel. He wears a high-necked black sweater beneath a gorgeous charcoal coat. He looks more expensive, more otherworldly and beautiful than anyone I’ve ever met. “How are your hands?”
A one-shouldered shrug. The split on his eyebrow is a dark line, hemmed by blue bruising. It roughens his beauty. It makes something twist in me. The way he defended his house yesterday—I’ve never seen anything like it. Something, a grudging respect maybe, blooms in me as I watch him drive.
Finally, he stops. We’re deep in a thicket of woods, the sky white overhead and our breath pluming when we step outside. I notice a couple of black cars on our tail, but they hang back, parking deep in the trees as Santo and I walk.
“Wouldn’t want to endanger such precious cargo,” he says, smiling wryly. I’m struck by that smile. It’s utterly disarming. Small, sharp, brief. I want to capture it again, but as soon as it’s come, it’s gone, and he’s walking briskly ahead of me. “Come.”
I hurry after him, grateful for the big white coat Sabine chose, and the fur-lined boots. I’m used to cold, but the chill of these mountains is another thing entirely. Wild, primal, dangerous. The kind that gets into your bones. I jog to keep up with Santo, who is striding purposefully down a stone path curving into the trees.
Something snaps in the shadows between them, and I reflexively take Santo’s arm. He doesn’t say anything, only looks at me curiously, then draws me closer, almost protectively. Warmth blooms behind my ribs.
