Finally, I couldn't delay any longer. It was past 1 a.m. and even I needed sleep.
I entered the bedroom quietly. The lights dimmed to almost nothing. Paola was already in bed—as far to the right as possible without falling off, covers pulled to her chin like armor.
Her eyes were closed but I knew she was awake. Her breathing was too controlled.
I moved through my routine: removed my tie, cufflinks, watch. Unbuttoned my shirt. I could feel her awareness of me. The air between us practically vibrated.
I left my undershirt on—a concession to her modesty—but removed my pants. I slept in boxer briefs normally.
When I slid into the bed, the mattress dipped and Paola went rigid. We lay in darkness, neither speaking. The space between us felt like an ocean.
I was hyperaware of her—the sound of her breathing, the warmth radiating across sheets, the subtle scent. Something floral, from the items my people picked up sometime between our wedding reception and the shower she’d taken. Not the heavy perfume Bianca had worn.
She was wearing one of the silk nightgowns my assistant had purchased.
This was absurd. I'd shared beds with countless women. Sex meant nothing—pleasure, release, transaction. No one ever stayed; what would have been the point?
But lying here next to mywife—a stranger—felt more intimate than any of those encounters.
The silence stretched. Then her voice, small in darkness: "Thank you."
My heart stuttered with her words. They weren’t ones I heard often. "For what?"
"For not... for giving me time."
I didn't know how to respond to gratitude for basic decency.
"Don't thank me yet. The week will pass quickly."
More silence. I thought she'd fallen asleep. Then I felt movement. Her fingertips brushed against my hip.
Accident? Intentional? I froze, remembering the heat of her body beneath her dress when I’d rubbed my thumb in small circles at her waist.
My hand moved almost of its own accord—found her hip through silk. She didn't pull away.
I could feel her heartbeat through the thin fabric—racing, fluttering like a trapped bird beneath my palm. The pulse point at her hip throbbed against my thumb, and the knowledge that I was causing that reaction sent dark satisfaction coiling through my chest.
"Are you scared?" My voice came out rough, graveled with want I couldn't quite suppress. The question hung between us in the darkness—honest, dangerous.
A pause. I felt her throat work as she swallowed. Then, barely a breath: "Yes."
"Good," I murmured, letting my thumb trace a slow, deliberate circle on the curve of her hip bone through silk that might as well have been nothing. She shivered—full body, involuntary. I felt every tremor. "You should be."
My cock was hard, straining against the fabric of my briefs. My entire body screamed at me to roll over, to cover her, to claim what was legally, contractually mine. The week suddenly seemed like an eternity. Like a torture I'd designed specifically for myself.
But something in her trembling, in that whisperedyes, made me pull my hand back. Made me put distance between us again.
"Sleep, Paola," I said, my voice a low command that barely concealed the razor edge of my control. "While you still can."
Her fingers tightened on my hip, not letting go.
CHAPTER 5
Paola
Ilay rigid in the dark, every nerve ending on fire.
Cesare's hand remained on my hip—warm, heavy, possessive through the thin silk. A brand that burned without flame.
