"Come in."
I turn the handle and step inside?—
Fuck.
Sophia stands by the dresser wearing nothing but a white shirt and black underwear. The shirt hits down her belly, leaving endless legs bare. Smooth. Perfect. My eyes lock on the curve where thigh meets ass, that strip of black lace that's definitely not helping my self-control.
"I'll be ready in a minute," she says, casual as if she's not half-naked in front of me.
She bends to grab jeans from a drawer, and the shirt rides up. Jesus Christ. The black lace cuts across her ass in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
I shoulddefinitelylook away.
She straightens, stepping into the jeans, and then—God help me—she turns around and does that little jump women do to fit their ass into tight denim. Everything bounces. Everything moves. Her ass fills those jeans like they were painted on, and my cock goes from interested to rock hard in seconds.
If this is the last thing my eyes ever see, I'll die happy.
"Sorry," she says, still facing away as she buttons the jeans. "Vittoria's clothes are all same size but this is tight."
Tight. Yeah. That's one word for it.
I cross the room in three strides. My hand slams against the wall beside her head, caging her between my body and the plaster. She gasps, those honey-brown eyes going wide.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
She blinks up at me, all innocence. "What do you mean?"
"Don't." My voice drops to that dangerous register that makes grown men step back. "Don't play dumb with me, Sophia."
"I was getting dressed." Her chin tilts up, defiant. "Is this the first time you've seen a woman put on jeans?"
The little minx. She knows exactly what she's doing. Her eyes sparkle with challenge, daring me to admit what just happened. What's been happening since she walked into my life.
"You think this is a game? You think you can just?—"
"Just what?" She cuts me off, and Christ, the balls on this girl. "Get dressed in my own room? You're the one who walked in. Would you react this way if Dante was at the door?"
Red floods my vision. My other fist connects with the wall on her other side, caging her completely. The plaster cracks under the impact. Her eyes go wide, but not with fear. Something else. Something that makes this infinitely worse. She's enjoying it.
She gets fucking amused by teasing me.
"Don't." The word comes out rough, broken. "Don't say another man's name when you're looking at me like that."
Her lips part. A tiny breath escapes.
"You want to know what you're doing?" I lean down until my mouth hovers inches from her ear. "You're making me forget every reason this is a bad idea. Making me want to say fuck the meeting, fuck Francesco, fuck everything that isn't you against this wall with MY name on your lips."
She shivers. I feel it everywhere our bodies almost touch.
"You're twenty years old," I continue, each word a battle for control. "You're under my protection. You're supposed to be off-limits. But you stand there in that scrap of lace, bending over like you don't know exactly what that does to me, and then you have the nerve to mention another man?"
My hand moves from the wall to her jaw, tilting her face up. Not rough. Never rough with her. But firm enough that she can't look away.
"Let me make something very clear, tesoro. You're mine now. This arrangement, this marriage—temporary or not—means you belong to me. No other man gets to see you like this. No other man gets to hear you say his name in that breathless little voice. And if any man is stupid enough to try, I'll bury him so deep they'll need days to find the body."
Her chest rises and falls rapidly. The pulse in her throat hammers against my thumb where it rests on her neck.
"Is that clear?"
