by Skye Warren
He lets me kiss him, moving my lips over his, the gentlest caress.
A low rumble runs through him. “Don’t,” he says, his lips moving against mine.
I pull back enough to meet his dark, turbulent gaze. “Why not?”
He grasps my arms and gives me a little shake, more meaning than violence. “I’d rather have your hate than your pity.”
I want to hate him. I want to pity him. But I’m afraid that I love him instead, that I never stopped loving him, not even when he died, not even when he came back to life. No matter what happens tomorrow or in the days after, he deserves a kiss from me—a real kiss, as a woman who knows what she wants. Maybe I deserve that too.
So I shake off his hold and reach for him again, pressing my lips to his in unschooled abandoned. As if unable to resist any longer, he groans a refusal before kissing me back. His lips move over mine as if he were part of the shadows around us, reaching every part of me, velvet and sure.
His body pushes against me, insistent, backing me up. Soft dirt cushions my feet, and I know I’ve stepped off the path. A wall curves behind my back, ivy tickling my neck, and I know I’m well and truly trapped. I’m breathing harder now, taking in more of that earth-dampened air.
He looks down at me, his face a mask of shadows. “So beautiful,” he says roughly. “I dreamed of you like this. Dreamed of touching you, tasting you.”
So did I. “Is it like you dreamed it would be?”
Slowly his head shakes. “I haven’t tasted you yet.”
I would ask what he meant, but he shows me instead. He bends his head to nip at my neck. I squirm away from the sting before pressing back for more. He doesn’t give it to me, though. Instead he works his way down my neck with too-light kisses, a brush like the leaves of ivy. It inflames me, making my body burn hotter than I knew it could. For all that I felt grown up at age fifteen, I was still a girl. I’m a woman now, with all the strength and desire that comes with it.
His mouth opens over the exposed skin of my breasts, the soft slope left bare by the dress. Without thought, without intention, I press myself toward him, offering myself, begging. As if to torment me, he pulls away. I moan with frustration, with unsated arousal.
Then he drops to his knees in front of me.
I haven’t tasted you yet.
“Gio?”
“Let me,” he says darkly. “Don’t fight me now, bella. Not about this.”
And it seems he understands about tonight, about this gift I’m giving him, giving myself. It’s a white flag, a temporary truce. We might take up the fight again tomorrow, but for now I won’t fight.
It’s a good thing, because I’m not sure I have the strength to fight this. Not when I’ve wondered for so long. When I’ve wanted for so long. Desire has made my limbs heavy. I let the wall hold me up as he lifts the hem of my skirt. His hands stroke my ankles, my calves. He caresses me everywhere, appreciation in every brush of calloused palms. There’s no time to feel self-conscious, not when every inch of skin seems to entrance him.
“Hold this.” His soft voice is laced with command as he presses the beaded fabric into my hands.
I clench my fingers tight, so tight, until the beads dig into my palm.
And then wait, while he runs his hands up the outsides of my legs. Then down over the fronts, his thumbs brushing the insides. My knees are weak, legs shaking. I must waver, because he holds my hips with a firmer grip, looking up. His eyes hold mine as he drags my panties down to the ground.
“Tell me you want this.” His voice wraps around me like stone and dirt and ivy, textured with need, a command and a plea.
“Tonight,” I whisper.
He nods, once.
Then he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it to the side. It lands in a dark heap on the stone path. “My dress,” I say faintly. “It’ll get stained.”
“I don’t care.”
He presses a kiss to the top of my mound, almost chaste. I shiver from that soft touch, anticipation like a light inside me, blinding even in the dark space.
Rough hands push my legs farther apart, my feet pressing farther into the dirt.
Then his mouth is on me there, his lips slick with my moisture, his tongue sliding into the secret space between. A sharp cry escapes me, shock and want and denial all at once. I’ve never had this done before, but I’ve imagined it. And every time it’s been him.
I could never have imagined the way he would eat at me, the ferocious intensity of it, the sharp almost pain of it. The desperation makes him clumsy, exploring one part of me, moving to the next, and then back again. It’s like he wants to devour all of me at once. My body can’t distinguish between the sensations, aching and overloaded. I gasp, trembling, holding on to the crush of my dress.
The first swipe of his tongue against my clit makes me sob. “Gio!”
His growl is pure triumph. He does it again and again, relentless in the way he gives it to me, merciless with the pressure and the pleasure of it. It’s too much, and I arch away, but his hands hold my hips in place. It’s cruel, the way he forces me to accept this, to feel this.
Climax slams into me, hard and sudden. I make a choked sound as pleasure rockets through me. Every muscle in my body clenches hard. Even then he doesn’t release me, doesn’t give me a break from his wicked tongue on my slit. He drinks up all the wetness he can find, lapping at me while I rock over his face.
“Stop,” I say, breathless. “Stop. Stop.”
His voice is unforgiving. “You gave me tonight.”
That’s the only thing he says before pressing his face into my sex again. I push up on my toes, trying to escape the aching brush of his tongue on my oversensitive flesh, but I just sink deeper into the earth. He mouths at my clit while his fingers play with my folds, teasing the entrance with maddening patience. I think I liked him better out-of-control and clumsy, almost careless. But that first orgasm seems to have taken the edge off, even though it was mine. He’s more leisurely now, taking his time. I’m the one who’s worked up beyond understanding, the climax doing nothing to sate me.
The second orgasm rises up like a wave. I can see it coming, but I can do nothing to stop it, nothing but hold my breath as it crashes over me. He licks me through my climax, using his hands and mouth to make it last even longer. At the end of it, I’m panting and begging.
“It’s too much,” I tell him.
In answer he lifts one of my legs over his shoulder, opening me to him. I’m wet enough that two fingers can slip inside me with ease. He curls them until I whimper.
“Please,” I say, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.
“Please what?” he says, voice dark and knowing. “Do you want me to stop?”
I do want him to stop, because then I could breathe again. Then I could go back to thinking of him as my enemy. My body overrules logic, overrides thought. All I can think about is the way his tongue feels. It’s my hips that answer him, rocking forward in silent plea.
He laughs softly. “I thought so.”
The arrogance should be frustrating, but I don’t feel anything but pleasure when he teases my clit. Don’t feel anything but desire when he uses his fingers in that timeless rhythm. I want more of him, all of him, and the words are on the tip of my tongue. His naked body against mine. Something other than his tongue and fingers inside me.
Imagining him, hard and thick, pushes me over the edge. He laves my clit with rough, brutal strokes while I shudder and cry out in his arms. He makes me come over and over again, until I’m crying, wordless, incoherent—until I’m sliding down the wall of ivy.
He catches me with gentle arms, using his jacket to create a dry nest for me, laying me down in the cradle of his arm. I think it must be over then, and part of me is sad for that, even though I have nothing left to give. He could do anything to me like this and I would be helpless to stop him, unable to speak.
His fingers toy gently with my folds, exploring the wet skin.
I l
et him touch me because I can’t do anything else. The darkness covers us like a cocoon, keeping me safe even though my legs are spread open, one hooked over his legs. Then his fingers find my clit, drawing circles, faster, faster.
Weakly I push at his hand.
I couldn’t possibly move him like this, but he stops anyway. “No?”
I swallow, struggling to find my voice. “Can’t.”
My body can’t possibly come again, whether I’ve given him tonight or not. I’m wrung out. Finished.
His expression is stark with tension. “I didn’t get to see your face.”
My breath hitches in my chest. But it doesn’t matter that he didn’t see my face, doesn’t matter how sweet it sounds that he wants to see me come that way. I’m used up, the sparks of pleasure almost painful now.
Except then he begins to whisper to me in Italian. I never learned, so I don’t know what he’s saying. The words blend together, a harmony of sex and love, the tenor of his voice shifting somehow. My hips rise up to meet his hand, drawing the strength from him, from the words I can’t understand but somehow do.
His fingers play with me, knowing, inexorable, working my body until I’m rocking, needing. The orgasm comes in deep, rhythmic pulses, shutting down every part of my body except there, making the world dark except for the blinding pleasure, stealing my breath except for his name. Gio, Gio, Gio.
It will never be enough. The thought comes to me in a flash of terrifying clarity. As much pleasure as he’s given me, more than I knew I could take, I want even more than this. I want forever.
A scuffing sound comes from the pathway.
In a flash Giovanni has covered me with my dress. He stands and blocks me with his body.
Someone appears in the center pathway just as I stand up, wrapping Giovanni’s coat around me.
Romero’s expression is grim in the faint light. “I’m sorry to disturb you. We found someone coming through the fence. We took him—”
In a matter of seconds, Giovanni is back to being a statue. Gone is the man who licked me with passion. He feels cold and distant. Violent. “Take Clara back to her room first. Meet me in the pool house after.”
“What’s happening?” I hate that I sound so scared in the face of his stoic confidence.
He turns to me, expression hard. “Business.”
Fear rises up, sharp and sudden. This is why I wanted to escape the life, this wrenching ache. The knowledge that he might be hurt. Or the more likely scenario that he’s going to hurt someone else. The tongue that licked me tonight might give the order to have a man killed. The hands that touched me so tenderly might pull the trigger.
I lower my voice so that Romero can’t hear me. “Why don’t you want a fountain there?”
He glances at the wide-open space and then back at me. His eyes are soulless, empty. The eyes of a killer. “I don’t like the sound of running water.” His voice is just as hollow. “Go, Clara. This isn’t for you to see.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me with Romero, barefoot in the dirt.
Chapter Sixteen
Romero seems distracted by whatever happened. That means I can’t flirt to get close to him again, but I couldn’t have anyway. Not with my sex still ringing from Giovanni’s touch. My body isn’t the only thing affected. It feels like I’m floating more than walking. I don’t even feel any pain from the heels I put on outside the conservatory.
Except something sharp keeps trying to pierce through the orgasmic haze.
Something urgent.
Then I realize. Romero is distracted, hardly looking at me. Giovanni is definitely busy with whatever intruder they found. The party will make it easier for me to blend in. This is exactly how Honor and I escaped the first time.
Of course then she had money saved for us.
And we took Giovanni’s car.
I don’t have money or a car right now, but I have my determination and a deeper knowledge of this mansion than Romero. This is my best chance, now, before I get locked back in that room with the reinforced window. And if I can get to a phone once I’m out, I can contact Honor for help.
Lupo. Tears prick my eyes. There’s no way I can go back for him first. If I make a run for it now, I can’t bring him with me. The best chance I have is to leave now…to leave him behind.
My heartbeat races with anticipation, but I force myself to walk at a regular pace, to keep my expression sex dazed. Because of the party, he’s avoiding the front staircase. Doesn’t want people to see me escorted to my room under armed guard, I suppose.
Instead we take the back way, the servants’ stairs. Perfect.
I spy the hidden door as we move up the narrow stairs. I’m still close enough that I couldn’t get in before he reached me. I can hear him breathing, his steps loud and ominous. Then someone comes down the stairs from the top, holding a tray. That’s all I need.
I pause and press against the hallway as if being courteous. I feel Romero’s frustration behind me, but he doesn’t say anything.
The maid doesn’t meet my eyes. “Excuse me,” she murmurs.
I feel bad for involving her in this, even in a small way. I hope she doesn’t get in trouble. But I can’t waste my one chance for freedom. She takes the steps in front of me. Then another. Another.
Her body blocks Romero’s view of me for half a second.
With a sudden burst, I press down the wooden lever that’s hidden in the wall. The panel swings open, revealing the dark tunnel. As I dive inside, I hear Romero’s confused shouts, “Hey! What the fuck?”
This is the most important part, locking it closed before he comes in after me.
I slam the panel shut and fumble in the dark for the small metal chain Honor and I added. The tunnels were already here—we found them painstakingly, over years. We added the locks so that if we were inside, we couldn’t be found. A sharp pain stabs my fingertip, and I let out a whimper. Shit. It’s like the metal is a needle and thread, my hands thick and clumsy.
A kick slams into the panel, jarring me to the side. I fall back but scramble up again, pushing against the panel with my body. Finally the metal hook finds the small hole, and it’s done.
That lock won’t hold for long, not with him kicking it. Especially not if he shoots it.
That means I have to get out of here as quickly as possible. I’m sure I can move faster than him in this small space. And once I get forward about twenty feet, the tunnel splits. He won’t know which way I’ve gone.
The cut on my finger smarts, especially when I have to put it on the dusty ground to crawl along the shaft. That would be just my luck, to catch some horrible disease while making my escape. I don’t let it slow me down, not even when my knees feel bruised, not even when I bump my head twice. This was a lot easier as a kid.
Something furry brushes my hand, and I yelp. Cautiously, I push forward again and feel something plastic. A Barbie doll, I realize with a sigh of relief.
I reach the fork in the tunnel and turn left. If I remember correctly, this will eventually lead to a pantry on the east side of the house, where I’m hoping I can sneak outside and hop the fence. It feels like hours that I’m crawling through here, but I know it’s no longer than fifteen minutes. I have a thousand tiny cuts on my palms and my knees, a pile of dust in my hair.
My strappy heels keep sliding off, and eventually I let them go, leaving bread crumbs that will be found too late—or not at all. Artifacts, like the Barbie doll, of girls who once lived here. Girls who once escaped.
I emerge into the dark pantry like a wild forest woman, a little out of breath and frantic. I know I’ve successfully shaken Romero, but there are still guards everywhere. And with dust and spiderwebs adorning the gold beads of my dress, I’ll be conspicuous if any of the guests see me.
Pushing open the pantry door, I hear the sound of shoes squeaking on the floor.
Quickly I back inside the dark room, praying they aren’t coming in.
There are two people, I realize
as hushed voices filter through the thin crack.
“Where did he come from?”
“The south gate. He was dressed up like a guest, trying to blend in.”
Not security, I’m guessing. Household gossip. Who’s trying to sneak inside? Is it some rival criminal organization, the same one my father was worried about years ago? Or is it different, something related to why Giovanni had taken me? He already has power, but he took me. He must need more for some reason. I supposed I could just assume he’s power hungry like my father, but he’s shown himself to be just different enough… or maybe I want to believe he’s different.
God, a part of me regrets being this close to escaping. How messed up is that? I loved Giovanni for so long, most of my life, that being with him still feels like something I want.
Could it work? A real marriage.
No, normal people go on dates. They didn’t drug the glass of water beside your bed. Except what if it did work? What if the boy I loved was still underneath all that armor?
No, not armor. Scar tissue. Three months.
I slip out the side door into the darkness of the night, more conflicted than I’ve ever been. Running with my sister was an easy decision—not even a choice, really. She’s my only true family. And she was the one in the most imminent danger from the fiancé our father had chosen for her. Technically I was in danger too, but no one knew about that.
If I survived that, I can survive whatever Giovanni does to me tomorrow night.
And stay with him for the rest of my life?
God, I’m going crazy—torn between what I want most and what I fear the most.
In the end, I can’t walk away. Enough of me still believes in Giovanni, enough of me still wants desperately to believe, that I can’t leave without knowing. Of course there’s no litmus test to find out if a man is a monster. Tomorrow night, our wedding night, I’ll find out for sure if he’ll truly force me. But if I stay to find out, it will be too late to escape. I need to find out now.