Moretti moves in behind me to trail his fingertips down my exposed spine, leaving fire in his wake.“It’s you.Fierce, unbreakable.”
He’s right.And I hate how much he is.
The reflections of our gazes are locked, and my lips are parted from the breath I can’t manage to steady.
My brain races to save me.
This is the man who kidnapped me, drugged me, turned my life into a bargaining chip for his family’s revenge, yet here he stands, having picked a dress that hugs every curve I’ve always guarded, that makes me look powerful and sensual and utterly, dangerously myself.The realization twists something deep inside me—anger, yes, sharp and familiar, but threaded through with a reluctant warmth.
Before I can summon the sarcasm that I need to shield myself and keep him at arm’s length, he steps onto the platform.
His chest brushes my back, the crisp fabric of his shirt whispering against the bare skin between my shoulder blades.
Instantly his possessive heat envelops me, and I feel the solid wall of him, his broad shoulders, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the restrained power coiled in every muscle.
Despite myself, my stomach tightens in a knot of anticipation.
He turns me slowly, his hands firm on my shoulders, guiding me until we face each other.
The mirrors multiply us endlessly—me in white silk that clings to my hips and flares at the knees, him in his dark suit, the contrast stark and intimate.
His dark eyes lock on mine, and for a heartbeat, the intensity there softens into something raw, almost hungry in a way that goes beyond conquest.
Then he lowers his head, and his mouth brushes mine.
His kiss starts gentle, a deliberate exploration that catches me off guard.
I should pull away.
My mind screams the order—remember the lamp, the locked room, the way he carried me out of my life like I belonged to him—but my body refuses the command.
Against my better judgment, I lift my hands to curl my fingers into the front of his shirt.
The luxurious material bunches under my grip as I pull him closer.
Groaning low in response, he deepens the kiss.
With his tongue, he traces the seam of my lips until I open my mouth for him.Then he’s inside, stroking, claiming, the rhythm slow at first but building with every shared breath.
He kisses like a man who has waited too long, and he slides his tongue against mine in long, deliberate strokes that send sparks racing down my spine.
A low sound escapes me, half protest, half plea, and he swallows it as he slides his hand from my shoulder to cup the back of my neck.
Deliberately he tilts my head until I’m exactly where he wants me.
The bodice of my gown feels suddenly too tight, the structured cups lifting my breasts while the fabric squeezes them together, making every inhale press them fuller against the silk.
But I’m lost as his free hand moves down my chest, and he glides across the edge of the strapless neckline.
Then I feel the deliberate press of his fingertips as he works them beneath the fabric.
Even though the gown’s boning is unyielding, he’s patient and relentless as he pushes past the barrier.
I shouldn’t let him.Should pull back.
But my common sense has vanished, taking my sense of self-preservation with it.
He moves lower until he cups my breast.
