Chapter Eleven
‘I FEEL LIKE I’ve been living in a dream, all this time,’ she said, eyes closed. But not because she was tired, so much as processing, everything. Every single feeling that was humming inside her, begging for release.
‘How so, cara?’ he asked as those big, strong arms lifted her to his chest, carrying her so easily to the palatial bathroom. He set her down inside the open-plan shower, then flicked a tap, holding his hand under the water until it was warm enough before easing her backwards, into the spray.
She closed her eyes again as the water beaded against muscles and skin that were newly awakened, a body that had been transformed by his touch.
‘A dream?’ he prompted, naked, running his index finger down her nose, to her lips. She sighed softly.
‘Up until this moment, I’ve been a shadow,’ she tried again, to articulate her meaning.
‘Only halfway to the woman I was meant to be. I know it probably sounds silly, it’s just…
I never knew that someone could make me feel like that.
’ Her eyes probed his, swimming in their depths. ‘Is it always this way?’
A muscle jerked low in his jaw as he continued to stare into her eyes. ‘Sex has a powerful way of connecting people,’ he said.
The answer was honest, but unsatisfying.
Because deep down, she wanted him to admit that this had been different and unique.
Special. It should have been a warning sign that she was in over her head.
Yet as he reached for a loofah and began to reverently sponge her body, the sound of her own sensations drowned everything else out.
Common sense was as dead as desire was alive, raging inside her, and she couldn’t bring herself to care.
In the light of day, Massimiliano faced a difficult decision.
To stick to their original deal, or to ask Amelia if she would alter it.
After all, their agreement had been for one night, he’d eked out three. Their agreement had been to have sex, so she could rid herself of the virginity she no longer wanted: he’d obliged.
But as he dressed for the office, every single cell in his body was urging him to stop putting clothes on and slide into her bed.
To draw her to him and kiss her awake, to gently coax her body back to the pleasure he knew he could deliver.
To lie beside her, kiss her, taste her. Hear her scream his name once more…
It was the strength of his need that eventually drove him out of the door of his penthouse.
The force of his need that made him realise he was getting into dangerous waters.
Because she was his wife for the next two years, but it was a meaningless marriage of convenience.
Little more than a business arrangement.
Blurring the lines with sex hadn’t been his choice. Not that he regretted it. But he would, if he weakened and continued to seek her out. He would if he let this get out of hand. For both of their sakes, he had to get things back on track now, reminding them of the nature of their relationship.
He thought of her all day though. He even contemplated calling her, to see how she was. How asinine! As though they were old friends, or more.
Instead, he worked late, until eight o’clock, planning to be home for just long enough to greet her before leaving for dinner. It seemed like a sensible way to avoid temptation—by avoiding her.
For one week, he seemed to barely notice she was there, apart from their dinners, which he clearly thought to be an obligatory part of gaining acceptance back into Italy’s high society.
Dinners where he sat opposite Amelia and made cold small talk, asked polite questions about her day.
Dinners where she sought a hint of the man she’d started to know, the passion just beneath the surface.
But even when their hands brushed accidentally, he was nothing if not polite, barely glancing at her, so she had the sinking suspicion that his whole seduction routine had been just that: a routine. An act. Part of the deal.
I never go back on my word.
The days were lonely, and long. No matter how much she filled them with—and she fitted a lot in—they seemed to be a form of stasis, while she was waiting for the man she’d married to return.
She no longer thought of him as her ‘husband’.
It was a small point of difference, but ‘the man she’d married’ more accurately encapsulated the emotional estrangement of their situation.
She lunched with her grandparents twice in that week, and put a brave face on, pretending, as he required of her, that she was happily in love with Massimiliano.
She sensed the tension in her grandparents, and, thanks to Massimiliano, understood the cause of it.
Their finances were disastrous, but he was going to help them.
She poured herself into the Italian lessons she was undertaking with Christiano, combining them with podcasts and audiobooks in Italian, as well as a language app daily. Not to mention, going out into Rome and listening to the language being spoken, letting it breathe into her.
Two weeks after sleeping together, she got a message from Massimiliano’s assistant that someone from a glossy Italian fashion magazine was coming to conduct an interview the following day, offering to book a stylist to do Amelia’s hair and make-up first. She demurred.
She had every intention of playing the part of his wife to perfection, but when it came to how she looked, she preferred to have complete control.
She moved her Italian lesson forward by an hour on the day of the interview, to allow enough time to prepare, but was only halfway through the tutorial session when she heard the front door open and glanced up to see Massimiliano stride into the room.
Her heart lurched into her throat, because she wasn’t prepared, and her cheeks flushed in automatic response.
Usually, she knew when he was coming home, and had a chance to prepare herself.
To brace for impact, so to speak. Her barriers were down, because things with Christiano were so easy and natural, and she was utterly relaxed with him.
So seeing Massimiliano unexpectedly hit harder than she would have liked.
Harder than she could even admit to herself.
‘Cara,’ he murmured, eyes boring into hers as he squared his jaw.
Her heart was racing. ‘What are you doing here?’
His gaze narrowed imperceptibly. ‘In my home, where I live?’
She sucked in a breath, belatedly remembering their pretend marriage and forcing a smile.
‘I just meant, so early in the day,’ she covered, unevenly, moving to stand, hesitating for the briefest moment before walking towards him and lifting up to kiss his cheek.
But he angled his head and claimed her mouth instead, his arm coming around her waist to hold her to his body.
All her senses rejoiced. Every single last one of them, at this unexpected, glorious proximity. At his possessive hold. His harsh, desperate, hungry kiss. A kiss that spoke of the need that had been tormenting her for what felt like an eternity.
‘Massimiliano,’ she whispered, his name a plea and pledge.
‘And who is this?’ he asked, his voice barely disguising a darkness she hadn’t heard before from Massimiliano.
But she recognised it anyway. She recognised it from her parents’ arguments, over her mother’s ‘friends’.
She heard the unmistakable tone of jealousy and glanced up at Massimiliano, then over to Christiano, who’d begun packing up their books.
‘Oh. Christiano—’ She blinked quickly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your surname.’
‘DeLuca,’ he supplied, with an easy, lopsided grin.
‘Christiano is my Italian tutor.’
Massimiliano glanced down at her sharply. ‘I didn’t know you had started that.’
True, she hadn’t mentioned it. It was a difficult thing for Amelia to navigate, given her complex relationship with the language. But in the back of her mind, she knew it was also because she’d had a childish desire to surprise him with her fluency, when she’d grown stronger.
‘Amelia is a gifted learner,’ Christiano said, then flicked his gaze—and smile—to Amelia. ‘If it weren’t for your medical aspirations, you’d be a great linguist.’
Massimiliano’s eyes seemed to pierce her completely.
‘Thank you, but you make it easy,’ she said as Massimiliano’s hand dropped from her side, his hand stretching at his thigh.
‘We have an interview,’ Massimiliano said, dismissively, stalking towards the front door.
Her jaw dropped at his rudeness. He couldn’t make it any clearer that he wanted Christiano gone.
Amelia shook her head in silent apology but Christiano waved his hand to silence her, winking as he passed. ‘Usual time tomorrow?’ he asked, not realising that the question was clearly poking the Italian billionaire bear.
‘Um, yep. Yeah, thanks.’
Massimiliano only nodded curtly as Christiano left the penthouse. He stood there, then, like a piece of stone, staring straight ahead, leaving Amelia with a thousand and one questions.
She had never really understood that expression about the air being thick enough to cut with a knife, until then. It seemed to take on a volume that was completely different from usual. She couldn’t breathe without feeling as though foam were occupying her lungs.
‘Massimiliano?’ she asked, stomach lurching when he turned to face her. His face was unmistakably angry. So angry she couldn’t fathom it.
‘I should have been clear, Amelia. While I respect your autonomy, and desire to further your sexual education, doing so in our shared home is both crass and disrespectful. You have money now; you can arrange a hotel room for this.’
Every single part of her exploded with rage. Even though she’d known he was jealous, she hadn’t expected this sort of accusation.