I feel strangely bereft at the distance, my body already missing his heat.
As I move toward the bathroom to change, he stops me with a word.
"Here. You are my wife. I've already seen your body. You change here."
Self-consciously, I peel off his wet shirt and hang it carefully over the chair. He watches me with that same hungry gaze. But there's something else there now. Curiosity. Genuine interest.
"Alessandro?" I whisper as I slip under the covers.
"Yes, stellina?"
"Thank you. For the shirt."
His smile is slow, dangerous, full of dark promise. "Don't thank me yet. I'm still going to corrupt you. I'm just going to take my time. Make you want every sinful thing I do to that innocent body. Make you beg for your own destruction."
Heat pools between my thighs, my body already betraying me with its eagerness to learn exactly what corruption feels like from his hands.
As thunder rumbles outside and rain lashes the windows, I close my eyes and try not to think about how his restraint tonight felt more dangerous than any threat. Because now I know he's not just playing with his food.
He's savoring it.
10 - Alessandro
My wife makes every other woman in this room look like they’re playing dress-up.
The realization settles in my gut, satisfying and dangerous. Four days since I found her on the rooftop in my stolen shirt, rain-soaked and trembling, and I still can't get the image out of my head. The column of exposed skin from neck right down to the soft downy tangle at the top of her thighs plays through my mind on repeat. Tonight's gala at the Four Seasons should distract me. Instead, watching her move through Chicago's elite only sharpens my obsession.
Her emerald gown hugs curves that make my cock twitch every time she shifts. Every man in the room tracks her movement, their wives shooting daggers while pretending to smile. The crystal chandeliers paint her skin gold.
But something's been off since day one. Those calloused hands I noticed on our wedding night. The way she screamed for someone named Tommy in her nightmares. How she flinched when the servants at home called her Mrs.Rosetti, like the title didn't fit. Tonight just confirms what I've been piecing together.
"Caviar?" A server appears with a silver tray, those little black pearls glistening.
My wife's nose wrinkles. "Fish eggs? No thank you."
The mayor's wife, standing beside us, actually gasps. The sound echoes off marble columns, heads turning our way. I slide my arm around my wife's waist, pulling her against me hardenough that she has to catch her breath. "My wife prefers simple descriptions for everything. Keeps us all honest."
The mayor's wife titters nervously, but her eyes narrow with the kind of suspicion that spreads through social circles like wildfire. Another social misstep to add to the growing list. First the salad fork, starting from the inside instead of outside, like someone who learned table settings from a guess rather than birth. Then she called the governor's wife by her first name, not realizing the woman demands her title even from friends.
Each mistake confirms what those calluses already told me: whoever this woman is, she's never lived in Frances Hewson's world.
"Oh my God, Frances Hewson!"
We both turn. A blonde in Dior practically bounces toward us, her smile bright enough to blind. But when she comes closer, her brow furrows in confusion.
"Pardon me," the blonde says. "I thought you were someone I went to school with." She walks away with a confused expression.
I turn to examine my wife. She avoids my gaze until I chuck my hand under her chin and lift her head. The silence stretches like a blade being drawn. My wife's hands start that telltale tremor, the one that's been getting worse all evening.
She opens her mouth, closes it, then manages, "I've cut my hair, so she didn't recognize me. Silly thing."
Liar.
"Call her back, then," I challenge. "Call your friend back so you can reminisce about Switzerland."
But she can't. Because she was never there.
The truth clicks into place with the satisfaction of a chambered round.
