"Were you?" He's close enough now that I can see the scratches I left on his cheek last night, still healing. "Or did you just want something of mine wrapped around that beautiful body?"
Thunder rumbles in the distance. The humid wind picks up, sending his stolen shirt fluttering around my thighs, the fabriclifting enough to bare everything underneath. His eyes track the movement, and something shifts in his expression, hunger mixing with curiosity.
He backs me toward the roof's edge, the low wall the only thing between me and a forty-foot drop. My bare feet scrape against rough stone, small pebbles cutting into my soles as I retreat, but there's nowhere to go.
"That shirt belongs to me," he says softly, his eyes traveling down my body with possessive heat that makes my skin burn. "Everything in that room belongs to me." His gaze returns to mine. "Everything in this house belongs to me."
Including you. He doesn't say it, but the words hang between us like a blade pressed to my throat.
"You're lucky it's me who found you up here," he continues, voice dropping darker.
"I'll return it," I whisper, my voice shaking as badly as my hands.
"Oh, you will." His smile is dark, dangerous. "But first, I want to know why my wife sneaks out of our bed to commune with stars instead of telling me what she needs."
The storm approaches faster now, electricity crackling in the air between us.
"The Perseids," I say, desperate to deflect his attention from my near-nakedness. "They're peaking tonight. I've watched them every year since I was seven. It was—it was all I had."
"Have you?" He steps closer, close enough that I can feel his body heat matching the humid night air. "And what do the Hewsons know about astronomy?"
The fake name stings, reminding me of the lie I'm living. But something rebellious flares in my chest despite my terror. "I know Perseus rescued Andromeda from chains. I know Cassiopeia was punished for her vanity. I know that meteorshowers are just debris from comets, beautiful destruction burning up in our atmosphere."
"Interesting." His hand comes up to finger the collar of his shirt where it gaps at my throat. "You speak of chains and punishment like you understand them. Tell me, wife, do you feel chained?"
Thunder cracks directly overhead, so loud and sudden that I jump forward without thinking, straight into Alessandro's arms. His chest is solid and warm against me, his hands automatically catching my waist to steady me. For a moment, we're frozen like this—me clutching his shoulders, him holding me against him, his shirt the only barrier between my naked body and his bare chest.
"Scared of a little thunder?" His voice rumbles through his chest into mine.
"I'm not scared," I lie, even as another crack makes me press closer.
His hands tighten on my waist. "No? Then you won't mind removing my shirt. You stole it from me, after all. Time to pay the consequences."
My blood turns to ice. "What?"
"You heard me." His thumbs stroke along my ribs through the cotton. "Take it off. Now. In my world, theft has consequences. Even for pretty wives."
"I can't—I'm not wearing—" The words dissolve as my whole body trembles harder.
"I know exactly what you're not wearing." His voice drops darker, hungrier. "I knew when you stole my shirts two nights ago. Did you think I wouldn't notice? Wouldn't feel the fabric still laced with your scent when I found it in the morning?"
Lightning illuminates us, and I see the truth in his eyes. Letting me think I had freedom when really I was just performing for an audience of one.
"Please," I whisper, my fingers clutching the shirt closed at my throat.
"That's not a safe word, cara. That's just begging." His fingers find the top button. "And in my world, begging just makes men like me hungrier."
The button slips free under his fingers. Then the second. The third. Humid air drifts through the gap, thick against heated skin, and he inhales sharply as lightning reveals a strip of bare skin from throat to navel.
"Fuck," he breathes, and his hands shake slightly as they hover over the fourth button.
"I've never—" My voice breaks. "No one has ever—"
"Ever what?" He looks up sharply.
"I've never…" I motion to my body, unable to actually say it. "You've slept with lots of women, but I…"
Something shifts in his expression, the predatory hunger mixing with genuine surprise. "Christ, Frances. You're a virgin?"
