My hands cup her face, my mind screaming caution as I wipe the remnants of tears from her cheeks.
Her hands come up to grip my wrists, not pushing me away but like she’s anchoring herself to me. The touch sends electricity racing up my arms.
"I never asked to be born a Vitale," she says, her eyes never leaving mine. "Just like you never asked to be born a Dante. We're more than our family names."
“And what are you?”
“I’m Isabella Dante, wife of Don Dante.” She closes her eyes as sadness sweeps over her face.
“What?”
Her eyes open. “That’s all I am. Not a painter or a writer. Not a business woman or even a college student. I’m whatever you tell me to be.”
Why do I feel like shit?
“What do you want to be?”
She gives me a wan smile. “I don’t know. No one has ever asked me that.”
A crazy desire to help her find herself fills me.
“But I can tell you I’m not your enemy. I’m not trying to undermine you or help my father. Given the chance, I could be a good wife. A loving wife.”
A war inside me rages. Protect myself or take the risk. Let her in. Give whatever it is between us a chance to become something real.
I want her. Not just her body, though God knows, I crave that too. I want her mind, her heart, her trust. I want to be the man who deserves what she's offering.
But wanting isn't having, and the fear of betrayal paralyzes me.
Her fingers tighten around my wrists. "Say something.”
The only words that come to mind will only upset her. Create distance. The last thing I want is to have her pull away.
So I don’t give her the words that reveal my torment, my fear of trusting her. Instead, I pull her against me, unable to resist any longer.
When our lips meet, it's not like our previous kisses. There's no power play, no dominance or submission. Just a terrifying need to believe her, to trust that she can help me be the man I need to be to protect my family.
She makes a soft sound against my mouth, her body melting into mine. It surprises me, considering the accusations I’ve tossed at her and my failure to offer my trust. She’s offering me what I’m unable to give her, and her trust in me is humbling.
I slide one hand into her hair, cradling the back of her head while my other arm wraps around her waist, eliminating any space between us.
Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging just enough to send electricity racing down my spine. The gentle aggression in her touch awakens a white-hot need.
I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to our bed. This time when I lay her down, there are no restraints, no battle of wills. Just us.
I undress her, taking my time to reveal each inch of skin. I press kisses to the inside of her wrist, the crook of her elbow, the soft hollow of her throat. I can’t give her what she wants in words, but I can show her what I wish I could give her.
When she's naked beneath me, I pause to look at her. She’s so fucking beautiful. And trusting. And giving. And I’m a fucking asshole.
Her hands reach for me, tugging at my clothes. I help her until there's nothing between us.
The first slide of skin against skin pulls a groan from deep in my chest. She’s soft and warm as her body arches into mine.
Our lips meet again as I position myself over her. Her legs open, wrapping around my hips. I rub my cock over her pussy, finding it slick. I lean over, sucking her nipple.
“Oh!” Her hips buck up, and I use the movement to drive into her. The sensation is so overwhelming I have to grit my teeth to keep from coming.
Her legs tighten around me, pulling me deeper, and I begin to move. I hold back, wanting to draw this moment out. To stay seeped inside her sweet body as long as I can.
