"You're not just some pawn in Antonio’s game," I murmured, my fingers grazing her throat, feeling the tremor of her pulse beneath my touch.
She trembled, not from fear but from something she didn't want to name. Something that mirrored the heat coursing through my own veins.
"Then stop treating me like I am," she whispered.
That was all it took. I'd spent my entire adult life maintaining iron control over my emotions, my desires, my impulses. But thiswoman—this infuriating, beautiful, unbreakable woman—had been systematically dismantling that control with every defiant glance, every challenge, every moment she refused to submit. My control snapped like a frayed wire. I crashed my mouth against hers, desperate and claiming. She responded with equal fury, her nails digging into my shoulders, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away.
What started against the window moved to my desk, papers scattering beneath her as I lifted her onto the polished surface. Her legs wrapped around my waist, skirt hiking up her thighs. I buried my face in her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin as she arched against me.
"I shouldn't want this," she gasped as my hands found the zipper of her dress.
"Neither should I," I growled, dragging the fabric down her shoulders.
There was nothing gentle about it. We collided like storms, all lightning and thunder, weeks of tension finally breaking. Her fingers tore at my shirt, sending buttons skittering across the floor. I pushed her dress up, my hands gripping her thighs hard enough to bruise.
When I finally thrust into her, she cried out, back arching off the desk. I covered her mouth with mine, swallowing the sound as we moved together in desperate rhythm. It was angry, passionate, primal—both of us taking what we'd been denying we wanted.
She came apart beneath me, nails scoring down my back, my name a broken prayer on her lips. I followed moments later, burying my face in her hair as pleasure tore through me with unexpected violence.
Reality crashed back like cold water. My chest heaved as I stared down at her—hair disheveled, lips swollen, looking as shaken as I felt. Neither of us spoke. The weight of what had just happened hung between us like a loaded gun.
For several heartbeats, we remained frozen—my forehead pressed against hers, our breathing ragged, the scent of sex and expensive cologne heavy in the air. Her fingers slowly unclenched from my shirt, leaving wrinkled fabric in their wake. I became acutely aware of her legs still wrapped around my waist, of how perfectly she fit against me, of the way her pulse hammered beneath my lips when I'd kissed her throat.
The spell broke when papers crinkled beneath us—scattered documents from my desk, now crumpled and displaced. The reminder of where we were, what had just happened, hit like a physical blow. I pulled back carefully, helping her sit up, my hands steadying her as she swayed slightly. Her dress had twisted around her waist, her hair falling in wild tangles around her shoulders. There was something raw and beautiful about her dishevelment that made my chest tighten dangerously.
Neither of us spoke as I stepped back, putting distance between us while she smoothed her skirt with trembling hands. The silence stretched, heavy with things neither of us was ready to acknowledge.
I straightened, fixing my trousers, jaw clenched against the tide of conflicting emotions. Sophie’s chin raised defiantly despite the vulnerability in her eyes.
"This was a mistake," I said, voice rough.
"Was it?" she challenged.
I couldn't answer. What could I say? That for those brief minutes, I’d forgotten everything—who she was, who I was, the danger we were both in. I'd never lost control like that before.
Instead, I moved toward the door. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we pretend this never happened."
What the hell did I just do?She's leverage—Antonio's weakness that I'm supposed to exploit. But in those few brief moments, she felt like… mine. That was the most dangerous thought I've ever had.
As I reached for the door handle, my phone rang. I answered, grateful for the interruption.
"We have a problem." Enzo's voice crackled through the speaker.
I turned, jaw clenched. "What now?"
Enzo appeared in the doorway, holding out a different phone. "This came through our secure line."
I took it, pressing it to my ear. Antonio's voice played through the speaker:
"I know you have her. Tell my brother I'm coming."
CHAPTER 4
Sophie
The ceiling had become my enemy. For hours—no, for six weeks now—I'd stared at its pristine white surface. These weeks of captivity had taught me to count every crack in the plaster. Sleep still wasn't coming, especially now. How could it, when my body still hummed with the memory of Vittorio's hands?
Two a.m. The red numbers on the bedside clock mocked me.
