My heart’s pounding in my chest, not with passion, but fear. I’m doing my best to mask it, and I dearly hope he doesn’t notice.
I touch his hand and I’m struck by how familiar his fingers feel. I shove the thought inside, focusing on what I need to do. I wrap my fingers around his and draw his hand to me, cupping his palm around my breast.
Finally the dam breaks and he loses control.
Before I can react he slips his hand inside my bra and pinches and rolls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Despite myself, I feel my nipple harden as my body responds to his touch.
Apparently he takes that as a sign to keep going, because he leans forward, pulling his mask above his defined jawline, freeing his lips; then he takes my areola into his mouth and sucks vigorously.
I’m almost enjoying this. Almost. My confused body certainly is.
I remind myself that I’m his prisoner. I remind myself of the plan. He’s distracted and now’s my chance.
I reach back with one hand and produce the knife from the back pocket of my jeans. I don’t intend to hurt him, of course. Just hold the knife to his throat and swap roles, the captive becoming the captor.
But he’s not so distracted by my body as I thought, because as I lift the weapon to his neck, he catches my wrist.
His teeth still surround my nipple, and he bites down slightly, causing a stab of pain. I’m not sure if it’s purposeful, or an unconscious reaction to the knife.
He lets my breast slide from his mouth, and when his gaze reaches my own, the hunger seems only to have increased, as if what I just did turns him on immensely. I think it’s because of the rage I see mixed in, somehow amplifying his desire. I find myself terrified of what he’s going to do to me.
He squeezes tighter and twists my wrist so painfully that I’m forced to drop the knife onto the bed.
Honestly, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Of course I’m not going to be able to overpower a man like him.
Stupid stupid stupid.
I blame it on not eating all day.
Without thinking, I reach out with my free hand and wrap my fingers around the bottom of the balaclava, which rests squarely on his jaw.
“No!” he says.
I yank upward, ripping off the mask.
For a moment, I simply stare at the beautiful man before me. That tousled, short-cropped blond hair. Those chiseled, almost aristocratic features. The shocked eyes, and the amazing eyelashes around them.
I’m looking at a ghost. It can’t be possible.
He let’s go of me.
I blink several times, and when the ghost doesn’t vanish, I drop the balaclava I’m still holding and quickly slide off of him. I back away, distractedly repositioning my bra and buttoning up my blouse.
When the slipper chair hits the back of my legs, I collapse onto it. Hurt and disbelief consume me. So itwashim I’d seen in the Ippodromo shortly before I was kidnapped.
“Massimo?” I tell him. “No…” I swallow. “How could you?” I look him in the eyes and I see the shame there. “How could you do this?”
Massimo Moretti. He’s the last person I expected my kidnapper to be. Thelast.
“I hate you,” I tell him. “With all my heart and soul.”
The shock and shame on his face instantly transform at those words, replaced with fury. “Good. Because I hate you too!”
He picks up the knife from the bed, and stands, towering over me.
I cower beneath him, shivering.
“You wanted to cut me, did you?” he asks coldly.
