“Cute. Let’s get you to bed.”
To bed. Those simple words instantly send a shiver of want down my spine, even as all of Juliana’s accusations about the Bellantis still ricochet around inside my head.
If she’s right, my husband and his brothers are very immoral, very disgusting, very evil men. But my heart and my mind are still at war, and despite the alcohol muddying my thoughts, my body is screaming for me to let Armani take me upstairs and show me exactly what kind of man he is.
“I didn’t drink the whole bottle all by myself,” I insist as Armani takes my hands and lifts me up from my chair. “Karina helped.”
“I see.”
Once I’m on my feet, I stumble a little, right into his rock-hard chest.
“Whoa there, cowboy,” he says teasingly, gripping my upper arms in his warm, steadying grasp.
Looking up at him, I realize his hair is damp and he smells like clean shampoo and soap. His tight black T-shirt hugs his torso so good, it’s all I can do not to blurt out something awkward about wanting to be that shirt right now. Or about how much better that shirt would look on our bedroom floor.
“Mm, you smell good,” I whisper.
He barely suppresses a laugh. “A shower will do that.”
“Maybe you should put me in one of those too, then, yourself,” I attempt to flirt. “Except with both of us. At the same time. In the shower, I mean.”
This time, he lets out the laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You know what I’m saying,” I insist, drawing him down for a kiss.
I close my eyes and try to lose myself in the reassurance of his mouth on mine, but I can’t. All I can think about is the fact that I shouldn’t be attracted to a man who hurts women, and I sure as hell shouldn’t love one that does.
Even as I pull back, the feel of his palms sliding down over my ass both excites and burns me. What is wrong with me? I need to get some real answers before I lose my head again. Before I allow the strong pull of desire to blot out the direness of the situation I’ve ended up in.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he says softly.
Lust, panic, uncertainty, my heart saying yes, my inner logic saying no, the echo of Juliana’s scolding—all of it has me freezing up until I realize I’m already letting him walk me toward the house.
He’s gentle as he leads me inside and then locks the door behind us. Patiently, he helps me down the hall, up the stairs, and into our room, supporting me as I trip, giggle, find my feet, and trip again.
Once the door is shut, he scoops me right off my feet and throws me over his shoulder. After he carries me through the sitting room, then into the bedroom, he tosses me onto the bed.
“Hey!” I exclaim, rolling into a sitting position.
But he’s on me in a second, pushing me onto my back, climbing over me and pinning my wrists above my head. Normally, I would love this. I’d lean into playing submissive, relishing the feel of his body weight, his domineering attitude, the demands about to spill out of his mouth.
Right now, though? I can’t handle it. I’m suddenly a lot more sober than I was five minutes ago.
“I was serious about the shower,” I say, struggling in his grip. “Let me up.”
Instantly, he does, sliding off the bed and watching me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just need to wash up.”
He follows me into the bathroom, then looks away and leans against the doorframe as I peel off my clothes and step into the shower. My head throbs and my eyelids feel heavy, but my adrenaline is racing as I soap up and close my eyes under the hot water.
“Why was Karina with you tonight?”
Ah, there it is. The first question of the evening. He’s never this quiet and observant unless he’s preparing to interrogate me.
“She came out to swim, but I was already sitting there so she joined me for a glass of wine.”
