Defiant Vows

Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

VIVIANA

My favorite playlist of ABBA’s greatest hits blares from my earphones as I jog up the stairs toward a hard-earned shower.

I spent the last few hours baking in the sun while working in the garden with Alonso. I owed him after Biggie—or the mongrel, as Alonso so affectionately calls him—dug up two flowerbeds in the courtyard. He didn’t hesitate to put me to work.

Sweat still drips from my brow. Dirt is caked beneath my fingernails. My hamstrings ache from bending over all afternoon, and blisters plague the heel of my palm where the shovel rubbed. Not to mention, I’m fairly certain I stink like a teenage boy.

I’m desperate for a very long, very hot shower before I’m due to train Biggie this evening. We’ve had him for a week, and his manners improve every day, but the big, handsome beast still has a long way to go. Fortunately for him, he’s captured the hearts of everyone living at the estate. Even Luc, who, just a few weeks ago, I’d been certain possessed no heart at all.

Stiff-legged and sore, I push through my bedroom and bee-line for the bathroom door. Absently humming the final notes of ‘Super Trouper,’ I turn the knob and begin to push into the ensuite. It’s only open a few inches when I stop, eyes widening until they bulge.

Oh hell.

Warm steam floods through the crack in the doorway. I hastily rip my earphones out and cringe at the sound of running water from the shower inside. Damn it.

Luc never takes showers during the day. I know because I’ve meticulously charted the times it’s safe for me to enter our shared bathroom. Like clockwork, my husband’s alarm clock rings at five in the morning, as heard through the upsettingly thin walls that separate our rooms. He works out in the home gym on the main floor for an hour before returning to our bathroom and showering. He does all this while I remain in bed, hiding away until I’m certain he’s started work for the day.

I take a step back, content to shut the door again and pretend I was never here. Yet, as I move away from the cracked door, my eyes snag on a plane of olive skin on the other side of the glass shower door. The steam does nothing to cloud my view of Luciano.

I pause. He’s…

Well, he’s beautiful.

For the briefest moment, I’m transported back to the Accademia Gallery of Florence. Before me, Michelangelo’s David has come to life. I’m awe-struck by the epitome of male beauty and perfect anatomy. After years of studying the real thing, I never thought I’d find a man of flesh and blood who compared to the masterpiece of marble. But Luc…

His back faces me, hard slabs of muscle shifting and rolling beneath smooth skin as he works shampoo into his hair. Suds and water run down his shoulders and spine, sliding over his rounded ass cheeks and down brawny thighs.

Heat drops to my center, and my lips fall open.

Holding my breath, I reach for the door handle. I shouldn’t be watching him, but I can’t make myself walk away. My fingers rest on the brass knob, and my eyes devour Luc again.

He turns ninety-degrees, and my lungs seize as I’m granted a glimpse of the rest of his body now. He runs his hands through his hair, sending streams of water and the last bits of soap pouring over his bowed head. My gaze follows the water over his broad chest, down ridge after ridge of his abdomen, toward the defined v-shaped muscles at his hips, the patch of dark hair, and finally…

“ Oh, sweet baby Jes— ” I whisper, more like a garbled hiss as I struggle to catch my breath.

His cock extends in front of him. It curves toward his navel, nearly reaching it, erect and swollen and very large. The purplish, bulbous tip bobs as he finishes with his hair, then he braces one hand on the glass wall in front of him. The other fists the thick base of his angry appendage.

My stomach clenches. Panic keeps me from moving. Or, maybe it’s awe. I’ve seen plenty of penises before—flaccid, on statues—but never in person. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the sight of Luciano sliding his hand from base to tip. Base to tip.

Oh my God.

He picks up speed, and the tendons in his forearm work to keep up the pace. Over and over again, his hand undulates the length of his cock, fingers sliding from root to the darker, rounded tip.

Luc tilts his head back, bracing his weight against the shower door with his elbow. A deep groan rises above the sound of the running water.

Suddenly, insatiable heat churns in my veins. My thighs instinctively clamp together, as if that might stave away the growing need for friction between my legs. I don’t want to acknowledge my body’s reaction to my husband, but the dampness in my panties is becoming harder and harder to ignore.

My lips go dry as he begins to thrust his hips in time with each stroke. It begins as a small tilt, but soon Luc rocks forward, working his body more than his hand. From this side vantage point, his balls swing beneath him, and I wonder if they’re as heavy as they look. I wonder what it might feel like to touch him. To be the one making him pant and moan. To ratchet up his pleasure until he comes undone.

My nipples harden, rubbing mercilessly against the fabric of my sports bra. I tighten my fingers around the doorknob, and, if I looked away from Luc, I might be able to close my eyes and imagine that they’re wrapping around his cock instead. Leaning forward, I dare to open the door an inch more, as if that might appease the greedy parts of me that want more, more, more…

A minute later, Luc’s movements become jerky. His rhythm falters. Water spills in rivulets down his body as his head falls forward, and a guttural groan rips from his chest. My legs tremble with anticipation.

White, creamy ribbons shoot from his tip, coating the glass wall. As the streams slow, so does his hand, milking the last droplets from his body until he stops altogether. He stands upright, ribs and chest heaving with every labored breath.

As Luc comes down from his high, I come to my senses. Realization pours over me, until panic and self-disgust wage war against the lust clouding my judgment.

What the hell am I doing?

Then, I run.

I spend the next hour aimlessly walking around the estate, focusing on anything and everything that doesn’t involve Luc. In the shower. Jerking off.

It’s an impossible task.

By the time I dare return to the bathroom, he’s gone. Still, I find myself holding my breath as I pad across the tile to the shower. Every time I close my eyes, I see him standing behind the glass, magnificent body quivering in the aftermath of his release.

While I wait for the water to heat up, my gaze helplessly wanders to the glass wall where streams of white clung to the surface an hour ago. It’s gone now, but the memory of it lives on in my head, and my traitorous fingers itch to touch the spot where it had been.

I clamp my eyes shut, that uncomfortable liquid warmth pooling at the apex of my thighs again. I blame the depravity of my desires on natural curiosity and my utter lack of experience. Maybe if I’d been allowed to date, I wouldn’t have watched Luc masturbate in the shower like a damn creep.

At least he didn’t catch you, I remind myself, stepping into the shower.

More than once, while dragging the washcloth over my body, my hand hovers below my navel. It’d be so easy to close my eyes, recall the image of Luc’s fist pumping his cock, and slip my fingers between my own folds. But pleasuring myself to the memory of the intimate, vulnerable act feels like an even bigger invasion of privacy. I refrain.

I hurry to finish showering after that, then go in search of Biggie for our evening training session. We’ve already mastered the ’sit’ portion of the ‘sit and stay’ command, and he ‘stays’ about fifty percent of the time, too. I consider that a win.

“Have you seen Biggie?” I poke my head into the kitchen, where Carlo is just beginning to cook dinner for the evening. “He’s not in his usual spots.” His usual spots mainly include Luc’s many-thousand-dollar couches.

Carlo sets a pot in the stove. “Last I saw, he was following Luciano around. Have you checked the office?”

I shake my head. I was afraid he’d say that. Trying my best to smile, I croak, “I’ll try that. Thanks.”

He didn’t see you. He didn’t see you. He didn’t see you. I repeat the mantra with every slow step toward Luc’s office. When I arrive at the door, I knock twice.

“Come in.” His clear voice calls from the other side. Swallowing down my nausea, I turn the handle and peer into the only room in this house I haven’t fully explored.

Luc sits behind his desk, a monstrosity crafted of some expensive dark wood. Not a single knick-knack or picture-frame decorates the wide, flat surface, but that doesn’t surprise me. Those sort of things show emotion and attachment, and a don with feelings is a don with weakness.

“Viviana.” He leans back against his leather chair. Pleasant. Unassuming.

“Hi.” I risk a smile. “I’m looking for Biggie.”

“Ah,” Luc hums and rolls away from his desk. “Come here.”

For a moment, my feet don’t move. His office has always been an off-limits mystery to me, and now he’s inviting me inside his sacred domain? I’m suspicious, mainly because trips to my own father’s office almost always ended in a fight or punishment. Regardless, I shuffle inside and approach the desk. Luc stands, a small smile peeling on his mouth. The same sensual mouth that released the most sinfully attractive groans as he fucked his fist this afternoon…

Oh my God. Focus , Viviana! I internally scream.

I round the corner of his desk but stop as soon as my eyes fall on Biggie, curled into a ball in the kneehole. He’s asleep, rattling a low snore with each heavy exhale. Not even the sound of our voices rouses him.

Chuckling, I shake my head. “Big baby. He tired himself out digging up the flowerbeds this morning.”

Luc raises his brows. “Again? Remind me to give Alonso a raise next quarter.”

I snort. “Don’t bother. The old curmudgeon made me replant them.”

He laughs, a rich noise that originates in his chest.

Over the last week, I’ve come to appreciate his laughter. We’ve spent more time together, mainly because Biggie seems to prefer Luc’s presence over mine, and the conversations flow more easily. We even ate dinner together once. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I earn that deep, intoxicating laugh.

“We’re supposed to do another thirty minutes of training before dinner, but I don’t want to wake him up.” I pout, crouching down to scratch his ears. He blinks, big brown eyes glazed with sleep, then flops his head back and continues snoring. I giggle, peering up at Luc. “I think he’s a lost cause tonight.”

“He deserves a night off,” Luc agrees, leaning a hip against his desk. Affection pools in his gaze. For the dog. Definitely for the dog.

I push to my feet again and wipe my palms against my thighs. “Well, I guess I’m gonna—”

“Actually, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

And here it comes.

Panic seizes me by the throat, but I still manage a small nod and innocent smile. “Sure. What’s up?”

“I’m heading into the city tonight for business,” he begins, folding his arms against his chest. “I’ll probably be there for a few days.”

I blink. Relief swells in my chest that he didn’t bring up my voyeurism, but it’s quickly followed by some strange, tight ickiness that festers in my gut. I don’t like it. Two weeks ago, I would’ve been glad to have the house to myself again. But now…

“Can I come?” The words slip from my lips before I can stop them.

His brow furrows. “You want to come with me?”

I shrug, heat creeping up my neck. “Why not? I’ve been wanting to see the Met’s Roof Garden Exhibit for this year. Maybe I’ll go visit my parents, too.” Not likely. We’ve only spoken twice since they sold me off as Elenora’s replacement, and neither conversation lasted more than five minutes.

Luc quietly considers my request. I realize that there’s a very real chance that he doesn’t want me to accompany him. Perhaps he planned to use the business trip as a means to get away from me. Or, maybe he hoped to meet up with a lover in my absence. The thought bothers me more than I care to admit.

Before he can refuse, I continue. “You said I’m not a prisoner here. I can go where I want, so long as I have my security. Remember?”

“I remember.” At last, he nods. “Alright. We’ll leave in an hour. Should we bring Biggie?”

Looking down at our slumbering beast, I shake my head. “I think he’ll prefer staying here. There’s more room for him to play, and he loves Carlo as much as he loves you. He’ll be happier.”

“You’re probably right.” He doesn’t sound happy about it, though. “Are you sure we’ll have anything to talk about if he’s not with us?”

I chuckle. “Probably not.”

“Maybe this will give us a chance to practice.”

His words evoke a fuzzy, warm feeling in my chest. I feel like I’m in high school again, and soccer star Pierre Langley just asked me to dance at homecoming. Of course, that never happened. No one asked me to school dances, though I think that had more to do with my father’s reputation than me.

Smirking, I feign nonchalance. “Or, maybe , you’ll spend the whole time tucked away in your office, and I’ll be perusing galleries and swiping your credit card at boutiques to my heart’s content.”

He chuckles. “You’re right. That sounds much more appealing.”

The smile we share makes my heart flutter, and I’m starting to resent my body’s uncontrollable reactions to this man. It betrays me with every little grin and kind word that he offers.

Eager to get out of the office and regain authority over my visceral responses, I gesture over my shoulder and back pedal toward the exit. “I’m gonna go start packing. Don’t want to make you late.”

If he hears me, he makes no indication of it. He takes a seat at his desk again, his focus already on the tablet perched in front of him.

I turn and have just reached the doorway when his low timbre calls out to me again. “Oh, Viviana?”

I pause and glance over my shoulder. “Hm?”

He looks up from his tablet then, and something wicked and warm simmers in his graphite gaze. One corner of his mouth curls in a feline smirk, and he taps the end of his stylus on the dark wood of his desk. “Did you enjoy the show this afternoon?”