She studies me. The tension between us thickens, electric and dangerous, just like it has since the moment we met. I’m making progress.
"I'm not a chess piece," she states. "Not yours, not my father's."
Regardless of my intentions, one thing is for sure. We have one undeniable chemistry. It’s crackling between us now, even as she tries to build a wall to keep it out.
I step closer, close enough to see her pupils dilate. "No, you're my wife."
My fingers brush her bare shoulder, and she shivers, sending a thrill of victory through me. A part of me wants to take her here and now, prove I’m right about the attraction that courses through us. But I know her well enough now to know pushing too hard, too fast will backfire.
“Let’s go to dinner.”
The restaurant lives up to its reputation in terms of ambiance and quality of the meal. Isabella eats sparingly, sipping her wine as if she wants to keep her wits about her. Her composure is flawless, every inch the poised Mafia princess her father raised her to be.
But I see the telltale signs of my impact. The slight flush when our fingers brush as I pour her wine, the way her breath catches when I lean close to speak over the ambient music.
"There's a place nearby," I tell her as we finish dessert. "Live music. Dancing."
Her eyebrow arches slightly. "You dance?”
I arch a brow. “You know I dance. We’ve done it?—”
“I meant like a club.”
I shrug. I’m not really a club guy, but I know that a dance allows me to touch her, to remind her of how good we are together.
I settle the bill without looking at it. "We have a lifetime to learn all sorts of new things about each other.”
She looks down, and inwardly, I curse at saying something that reminds her she’s stuck with me for the rest of her life. Or mine. Maybe she’ll wish death upon me, perhaps even for her father to be the one who pulls the trigger.
The club is intimate, tucked into a renovated stone building with a terrace overlooking the sea. Inside, couples sway to the sultry notes of a jazz quartet. The lighting is low, the atmosphere sultry.
"Reminds me of the night we danced at the gala," I murmur, guiding her toward the floor without giving her time to refuse.
Her body tenses as my hand finds the small of her back, but she allows me to lead her into the dance. "You mean when you showed your true self."
I pull her closer than propriety demands, close enough for her to feel what she does to me. "And what self is that?"
"A man who takes what he wants, then discards it when he’s had his fill."
The words sting, but I know I deserve them.
"Is that what you think?" My lips brush her ear as I speak. "That I've discarded you?"
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, defiance blazing. "Your seduction won't work, Alessandro. I'm not the naive virgin from the rooftop anymore."
I can't help the smile that curves my lips. "No, you're not. You're my wife. And we both know exactly what happens when I touch you."
To prove my point, I slide my hand slightly lower on her back, drawing her hips against mine. Her sharp intake of breath is a victory.
"You can lie to yourself," I murmur against her neck, "but your body can't lie to me."
Something inside me shifts. This isn't just about strategy anymore. This is about claiming what's mine.
Her eyes flash with defiance, but I feel the way her body betrays her. Her body melts against me. Her hips press against mine as we sway to the music.
"You're fighting yourself more than you're fighting me." I relish the shiver that runs through her. "Why deny what we both know is inevitable?"
When she doesn't answer, I draw back just enough to look into her eyes. I see the desire battling with pride.
