“It’s not what has gotten into me, but what will later get into you,” I quipped back, leering at her while also feeling surprisingly playful.
And that was something noteworthy. When was the last time I’d felt playful? Even for just a moment?
I ushered her all the way to the third floor and then out on the roof where a long patio had been constructed above the lights of the city. Dusk had fallen, making the streetlamps glitter like jewels in the distance, and I fingered her dangling diamond earrings, reminded of the similarity. Alongside these lights was the charcoal gray expanse of Lake Michigan, its waters seemingly flat in the distance. Still, the sight was nothing if not spectacular. I’d always admired it. Its shifting tides. Its dark ebbs and flows. In some ways, I felt like that inland sea. Tempestuous, powerful, and sometimes deadly.
Our home staff emerged from one shadowed corner as if from the ether to bring the meals I hand-picked myself. Once they set the caprese salad with pesto sauce and bruschetta in front of us, I took a forkful and lifted it before her. Puzzlement furrowed her brow, creasing that gorgeous olive skin of hers, but I didn’t chastise her for this. I was feeling too indulgent for a reprimand.
“Open your mouth,farfalla.” She obeyed, and I tipped the food onto her tongue. She ate delicately, like any girl raised as a mafia princess should, her brilliant blue eyes staying on mine.
“It is lovely,” she complimented the food, but I waved away her polite words. Of course, the food was lovely. We Cavettis hired the best chefs and food preparers in the area to personally provide for us. No expense had been spared nor would it ever be. I took a bite myself, then proceeded to feed her again. Wisely, she watched me patiently. She didn’t attempt to grab her own fork or to place her attention elsewhere. Instead, she kept every part of her body zeroed in on me.
I approved.
Next, I took the carafe of Château Lafite Rothschild Pauillac red that had been bottled in 2010 and poured it into her glass. The burgundy color of the wine was so rich as to almost be black, another facet of the vintage that appealed to me, and the fruity currant scent wafted over our outdoor table. I brought the edge of the goblet to her lips, giving her a sip. She swallowed and the movement of her throat called to me.
I could have easily pushed all the items from the table and spread her over it like butter, taking her right there and then. But this was a celebration, one I wished to savor. I offered her a larger swallow of the divine red nectar, pleased when she took all I gave her. This boded well for our future.
Then, she astounded me with her next query.
“This is the Pauillac red, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I confirmed. Apparently, Lorenzo Bonifacio had made sure his children were well versed in wine and spirits. The thought of her father, the first man I’d ever killed, brought an unpleasant sensation to squirm like a python below my sternum, so I warded it off. “Do you like it?”
“Very much.”
Her approval, though unnecessary, sent a jolt of happiness through my system, utterly eradicating the sensation that had come before. I appreciated that my fiancée liked what I did. The next course of pasta carbonara and mushroom risotto came, and again, I fed her from my own fork. This time, I made sure my fingers brushed her lips as I did so. I yearned to feel their softness. There was something so sensual about feeding her like this that I almost felt as if we were under some magical spell. A spell I felt obligated not to break.
Our dessert of pistachio panna cotta arrived to round off our meal, it’s presentation a work of art with its thick light green custard decorated with circles of white chocolate and sprinkles of ground pistachios along the top. I dipped the spoon into the concoction, but before I could slip it onto her tongue, she spoke.
“Romeo, what are your plans for me?”
I went still. “What do you mean, Lucia?”
“I mean are you going to keep me a prisoner or are we ever to be married? Will I ever become your actual wife?”
I chuckled darkly. Like the butterfly I’d given her originally, she acted as if she wanted freedom, but she didn’t. I’d told her that on one of the first occasions I’d spoken to her, but she hadn’t believed me. She may not believe me now, either, but I would convince her. She would always be mine, always belong to me.
“Does it matter which you are?”
Her features grew rigid and a smidgen of anger had entered her tone. “It matters to me.”
Instead of responding in kind, I felt fascinated by her showing of emotion. Did she truly think she could defy me at this point and live to tell the tale? I wondered how far I could push her with this conversation without inciting my own short fuse. Feeling daring, I decided to find out.
“What difference does it make? Wife or no wife, you’ll remain with me.”
“So, you’re going to maintain my captivity either way?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked her this not because she had a choice but so I could see what her reaction to my flippancy would be.
“Wives are not generally treated as mere property. Not in a real marriage where two people love one another.”
I smirked at her, then raised the spoonful of pistachio custard to her lips. This time, she didn’t automatically open for me, and I tapped the end of the utensil against her closed mouth. Reluctantly, she parted her lips and accepted the taste. Since she’d rejected my offering in the beginning, some of the dessert had slopped up onto the corner of her mouth. I took two of my fingers and wiped it clean, then thrust those fingers into her mouth without warning, silently demanding that she suck on them.
She did and I rubbed those fingers along her tongue. Her eyes went half-mast, a look of intoxicated desire floating over her face, not from the wine but from what I’d done to her. This was why I couldn’t seem to shake this woman off. Every time she aggravated me, she did something enticing like this that made me so hard I ached to drive myself into her with wild abandon.
There was this unique push-pull with her, like a magnet with its poles flipped first one way then another. She would attempt to repel me, then draw me in so willingly. And while I still hadn’t partaken of her, I knew the time of allowing that tension to build was coming to a close. Each time I tormented her—which turned me on even more—it tested my resolve. I’d enjoyed our tug-o-war, but it wouldn’t last much longer. It was nearly time for me to reel her in for good and declare for myself the win.
But not quite yet.
