Her eyes widen as the flickers of shock ripple through them.
Her gaze is on mine, and her chest rises and falls in shallow breaths.
I take in the subtle tremor in her hands.
You want to test me?
Fuck if that doesn’t make my cock twitch in anticipation.
This woman…
Like she had after I was an asshole at the bridal shop, she lifts her chin.
“As I said, prisoners don’t get pretty dresses.”I move closer, my footfall sharp on the hardwood floors.
To her credit, she continues to stand her ground.
Relentlessly I press forward until I’m right in front of her.Her intoxicating scent—wild orchids and pure feminine rebellion—fills my lungs.
She doesn’t flinch, but the pulse in her throat jumps, and I itch to trace the rapid beat with my tongue.
It doesn’t matter that she pretends not to be affected by me; her body betrays her at every turn.If she hadn’t been attracted, she would never have left her friends on the rooftop to join me at the bar.And her beautiful little nipple wouldn’t have responded so perfectly to my touch.
“Last chance.”
Her lips part, and a soft exhale escapes.
Eyes wide, she fists the hem of the dress completely.
Then she hesitates, her gaze locked on mine, searching for something—mercy, perhaps, or a crack in my resolve.The Russo enemy won’t find either anywhere in my soul.
Slowly, deliberately, she lifts the fabric, inch by inch, revealing the smooth expanse of her thighs.
Fuck me.
Last night, after I carried her into my room, I saw every bit of her body, but then my actions were perfunctory, a necessity more than anything else.
There’s a huge difference between being sure she was as comfortable as possible and watching her show herself to me.
As she continues, the lace edge of her panties peeks out, black and delicate against her perfect skin.
My blood heats, surging south, and I clench my jaw to keep from reaching out, from ripping the damn thing off myself.
Patience, I remind myself.This is about control—mine over hers and mine over the damn hunger for her that’s threatening me.
She slides the dress higher, exposing the flare of her hips, the nipped-in curve of her waist.
Her breath hitching, she pauses.“Moretti…” There’s a huskiness in her tone that sends a jolt straight to my cock.
She’s still calling me Moretti, as if she’s not going to walk down the aisle to me tomorrow.
I want to make her scream it out loud.Dante.I want to hear it whispered from her full lips, want her to say it like a plea, like a prayer.
And she’ll do it before the day is over.
“Do it, Valentina.”
Like a martyr, she squeezes her eyes closed as she tugs the dress up over her torso.
