My breaths consist of apprehension.
His consist of excitement.
“Come here,donnaccia.”
An invisible pressure squeezes me from all sides, and it’s as if my chest caves in on itself, making each breath a struggle. I don’t know this man, and I’m not sure what he considers prompt obedience, so I quickly slide closer, putting myself within his reach. Then I mentally steel myself against the likelihood of him touching me. Again.
Maximus takes a lock of my hair and rubs it between his fingers before curling the strand around his index finger. “It would seem I can no longer call you that,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You see, I was beyond certain you were a whore. Whether Rossi’s or someone else’s, I wasn’t sure, but imagine my surprise when I found out otherwise.”
He holds my gaze just as surely as he holds my hair, holds me prisoner, and holds my hand in marriage.
Or bondage.
“So tell me,” he says, “what should I call you?”
I blink, not quite understanding why he asked. “What do you want to call me?”
He releases the lock of hair, and with a featherlight touch, Maximus runs his finger along the base of my throat, following the curvature of my neck. Does he feel my heart thrashing inside my ribs or notice the unsteadiness of my breaths? Once his fingertip trails the lacy edge of my nightgown, I swear he’ll detect the trembling I’m trying so hard to hide.
Fear can be the only reason I speak without being prompted to do so. He pauses whenever I ask him a question, and out of self-preservation, I do it again despite risking his anger. He could interpret my inquiry as disrespect or me challenging him, but all I’m doing is trying to delay the inevitable. Maximus will touch me intimately again, and me talking won’t stop him.
I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.
“Fact: The abbreviationMrs. originated from the wordmistress.” I inhale deeply to remain calm, but when he dips his finger underneath the frill of lace to skim the top of my breast, I lose the oxygen I just gathered in my lungs to push it out in a stream of sentences that almost fuse together. “And the abbreviationMr. was derived frommaster. Both terms evolved to carry the meanings we use now when speaking of married individuals, but they didn’t start out that way.Mistresshas many definitions, and the first is ‘a woman who governs,’ which is in reference to a servant. The others are ‘a skilled woman,’ ‘a woman teacher,’ and ‘a beloved woman.’ However, the last one is ‘a whore or concubine.’ So I want to know if I am a Mrs. in the married sense, or a mistress, a woman who’s nothing more than used for sex?”
I pause for a moment and recall his instruction from before. “Sir,” I add hastily.
My face is flaming, and some of it stems from embarrassment because I’ve made an idiot out of myself by spouting random tidbits of information no one cares about. But it’s not only that. I’m flustered by the way his fingertip continues to glide across the expanse of my breasts, tracing the contours and coming close to my nipples. His gaze strips me naked, and there’s nowhere I can run or hide that he won’t find me, and I don’t mean that just physically. There’s something about his dark eyes and the way he studies me that make it as though he’s drilling past my mental shields, discovering secrets I don’t wish to tell, and finding things he doesn’t have a right to know.
How can I hope to protect myself if he disarms me?
How can anyone truly defend themselves against a power greater than their own?
I have to figure out the answer. Quickly.
The weight of his stare is too much of a burden for me to maintain, and I bow my head to break the visual connection. I wish he’d do the same and take his hand away.
The silence in the space between us swells, and it’s fed by the apprehension taking root in me. The only reason I don’t escape to the furthest, darkest corner of my mind is because Maximus won’t let me retreat. He brushes the tip of my nipple, and I flinch. It’s subtle, and there’s a possibility he didn’t see me, but would Maximus care if he did? He repeats the same gentle caress to the other nipple, and I tug on my bottom lip with my teeth, gnawing on the soft skin to keep from reacting. I can’t let him know his effect on me, but if he really wants to find out, then I won’t be able to lie.
Once again my body has betrayed me.
The heat from my face travels downward and spreads, coating my arms, torso, and legs with a seductive blaze. It licks along my most sensitive parts, hardening my nipples to stiff peaks and giving a feeling of fullness to my breasts. My sex clenches, and my clit throbs, bringing my attention to the core of me that yearns for something unknown.
Well, perhaps not completely unknown.
I remember what it felt like to have Maximus stroke me and how quickly I dampened for him in spite of everything he did and said to me. The shame I experienced then has returned and is now fused with the delicious fire burning within me. I grow hotter with every inch of my skin he grazes, and I don’t know how to stop it.
He retracts his hand, and the sigh of relief that rises within me is obliterated when he snakes his hand underneath my gown, the heat from his palm seeping into my thigh. There isn’t a part of me that’s not heightened with awareness, and it’s to the point his gaze is like a physical touch as well. I can feel him watching me.
What is he searching for?
I stare at the outline of his fingers underneath my clothing, and it affirms how much larger and stronger he is than me. Maximus can take what he wants from me physically, but there has to be a way I can keep him from stealing my soul. Because the day I truly desire his touch without seduction is the day I’ve lost myself.
“That history lesson in abbreviations,” he says slowly, “was not the answer I was looking for.”
I remain still and place my focus on his words. Not his thumb stroking the inside of my thigh. Not the way my nipples ache. And not the sensitivity of my clit.
“You should know by now that you are not a wife in the traditional sense.” He inches his fingers a little more up my thigh with each back-and-forth motion of his thumb. “But I don’t know if I’d say you are my mistress either. That’s a woman a man would seek out to avoid his wife, to fuck when he needed, and it’d be someone he didn’t loathe.”
