"I've thought about little else," she admitted.
"And?"
Her breathing changed—faster, shallower. She wanted this, wanted it withme.But I needed to hear her say it. "And I'm still terrified."
Not the answer I wanted, but I appreciated the honesty. "Fear and desire aren't mutually exclusive, Paola."
The flush crept up her neck. She couldn't deny the desire—I'd seen it in her eyes, felt it in the way she responded to my proximity.
"Five days," she whispered. "I still have five days."
Four. But I didn’t correct her; didn’t need her more scared, not with how delicious it was when I saw her shiver.
"You do." I leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "But I wonder... are you counting down to the deadline? Or counting down to when you'll finally stop fighting what you want?"
The question hit its mark—her pupils dilated, her breath caught.
"The choice is still yours,moglie mia. But choose wisely. The waiting is torture for both of us."
I pushed away from the couch before I did something I'd regret. Or wouldn't regret. That was the problem.
In the bedroom, I closed the door. Leaned against it.
My control was fraying. I could still smell her—something floral, feminine, intoxicating.
This wasn't supposed to happen. I'd fucked countless women. Sex was transaction, pleasure, release. Nothing more.
But Paola—she was getting under my skin in ways I didn't anticipate.
Maybe it was the challenge. She was the first person in years who looked at me with something other than fear or greed.
Or maybe it was the innocence. Knowing she was untouched, that I'd be her first, her only—the possessiveness that thought triggered was primal.
I stripped off my clothes, stepped into the shower. The cold water was an attempt to try and regain control. It would be near impossible to sleep next to her again without reaching out and claiming what was mine.
The ice cold shower didn't help. I could still see her on that couch, vulnerable and wanting and afraid all at once.
Four more days.
I wasn't sure I'd last that long.
I exited the shower, towel around my waist, and found Paola in the bedroom. She was standing by the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the city.
"Can't sleep out there either?" I asked, moving to my dresser. Part of me had been hoping she’d settle back into the couch, keep some distance between us. My body felt hot and hard and tense with her near.
"No." She didn't turn around. "Too quiet. Too big. Too... everything."
I pulled on boxer briefs, considered leaving my shirt off, but grabbed an undershirt—giving her modesty. Or myself restraint.
"You'll get used to it."
"Will I?" Now she turned. Her eyes were red-rimmed—she'd been crying. Silently, privately. "Get used to being locked up? To having no choices? To being owned?"
The word "owned" shouldn't turn me on. It did.
I approached slowly. "You want honesty?"
"I want a lot of things. I doubt I'll get any of them."
