The thought is a sharp, unwelcome jab.
I am a man who likes to be in control. Of my life, my company, my desires. But with her… with her, my control is a frayed thread, threatening to snap at any moment.
I start to disentangle myself from her, moving slowly, carefully, trying not to wake her.
As I suspected, she doesn't stir. I slip out of bed, the cool air a shock to my overheated skin. I look for my clothes, but they are a scattered mess on the floor, a trail of discarded garments that tells the story of our desperate, frantic journey to this bed.
I don't bother with them. I just grab my phone from the pocket of my trousers and head for the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind me.
I need a moment.
A moment to clear my head.
To process what just happened.
I lean against the cool marble of the vanity and look at myself in the mirror.
The man who stares back is a stranger.
His hair is a mess. His lips are swollen. His eyes are dark, not with their usual cool calculation, but with something else. Something raw and untamed.
And I see it in the reflection of my own eyes. On my own skin. Faint reddish marks on my arms, and, when I turn to the side a bit, on my back as well.
She wasn't a passive participant in this. She didn't just lie there and take it. She fought me. She clawed me. She demanded and took as much as she gave.
The memory of her nails digging into my skin, the sound of her ragged breaths, the feel of her body tightening around mine, sends a fresh wave of lust through me.
I turn on the tap and splash cold water on my face, trying to shock some sense into my system.
It doesn't work.
All it does is make me more aware of the faint, lingering scent of her on my skin. The smell of our sex that clings to me like a second skin.
I look at my phone. It's almost 3:00 in the morning.
I should tell Armando to pull the car around. I should get dressed and walk out the door. I should go back to my own home, my own bed, and pretend this never happened.
I should...
I pick up my phone and tap out a message to Armando.
Staying for the night. Security good?
His reply is almost instant. Si, signore. Always.
I am not surprised. Armando isn't just my driver. He's my head of security, a former member of the Carabinieri with a network of contacts and an almost unnerving ability to be exactly where he needs to be, exactly when he needs to be there.
If I am in this building, he knows it top to bottom. He knows the floor, the apartment, and probably the fact that I am currently in the bathroom wearing nothing but a layer of sweat and a considerable amount of Victoria's arousal.
I put the phone down, my decision made.
I am staying.
The relief that washes over me is so intense it is almost disconcerting. I have made billion-euro deals that required less emotional investment than the simple decision to stay the night.
I open the drawers of her cabinet until I find a stack of hand towels and washcloths. I dampen one with warm water and wring it out.
I don't know why I'm doing this. It’s an impulse. A need.
