Chapter 6
Dez
I'd been with women before. Plenty of them. Some vanilla, some who thought they wanted what I offered until they realized what it actually meant. But watching Angelina Castellano come apart in my hands? That was something else entirely.
She sat on the edge of my bathtub, still trembling slightly, her hair a mess around her shoulders, marks from the restraints fading on her wrists. She looked thoroughly fucked and absolutely beautiful, and something possessive coiled tight in my chest.
Mine.
The thought was dangerous. This was supposed to be one night. One transaction. I'd paid for her time, not her soul. But watching her surrender so completely, hearing her beg in that voice that went straight to my dick, feeling her clench around me when she finally came—
I wanted more.
"In you go," I said, lifting her easily and lowering her into the warm water.
She sighed, her eyes closing as the heat surrounded her. "This is perfect."
"Good." I knelt beside the tub, reaching for the soap I'd had delivered this morning along with everything else. "Lean forward."
She obeyed without question, and I felt that same satisfaction I'd felt during lunch.
She was learning to trust me, to follow my commands, to let me take care of her.
I soaped up my hands and began washing her back with slow, deliberate strokes.
Her skin was soft, still flushed from exertion, and I could see the faint red marks on her hips where I'd gripped her.
I'd left marks.
The territorial part of me fucking loved it.
"How do you feel?" I asked, working the soap across her shoulders.
"Floaty," she murmured. "Like I'm not quite in my body."
"That's normal. Endorphins." I rinsed her back, watching the water cascade down her spine. "It'll pass in a bit. You'll probably crash hard afterward."
"You really do know what you're doing."
I heard the surprise in her voice and smiled. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I..." She paused, and I watched color flood her cheeks. "Maybe. A little. You're twenty-eight."
"And you're thirty-eight." I moved the soap to her arms, working it into her skin with firm pressure. "Ten years' difference. I’m beginning to think it bothers you. Cause it for sure as hell doesn’t change a thing for me."
"It should," she admitted quietly. "But it doesn't. You're more... commanding than men twice your age."
"That's because they're playing at power." I guided her to lean back against the tub so I could wash her front. "I actually have it."
"Confidence looks good on you."
"It's not confidence if it's fact." I soaped up her breasts, watching her nipples harden under my touch despite the warm water.
"I know what I'm doing, Angelina. I've been studying dominance and submission since I was twenty.
Read every book, took courses, spent years learning how to read body language and manage scenes safely.
Lived this life, too. Knowledge only takes you so far. "
Her eyes opened, focusing on me with curiosity. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why put in that much effort? Most men just... do whatever and call it dominance."
I paused, my hands stilling on her skin. It was a fair question. And she deserved an honest answer.
"Because I need control," I said finally. "In my life, in my work, in my relationships. It's not just a kink for me—it's who I am. And if I'm going to ask someone to surrender to me, to trust me with their safety and their pleasure, then I need to be worthy of that trust."
She studied me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. "That's... surprisingly thoughtful."
"I'm a complicated man, full of layers." I resumed washing her, moving lower. "Ruthless in business. Patient in pleasure. Violent when necessary. Gentle when it matters."
"And which one are you being right now?"
I slipped my soapy hand between her thighs, feeling her still-sensitive flesh. "Which one do you think?"
She gasped, her hips shifting instinctively toward my touch.
"Gentle," she breathed.
"For now." I circled her clit lazily, not trying to make her come, just touching because I could. "But the day’s not over yet."
"What else do you have planned?"
"Dinner. More scenes. Maybe some impact play if you're interested." I withdrew my hand and began rinsing her off. "And somewhere in there, we're going to talk."
Her expression shuttered slightly. "About what?"
"About why you're really here." I stood, grabbing a towel. "Stand up."
She obeyed, water sluicing off her body in rivulets that I wanted to follow with my tongue. Later. There'd be time for that later.
I wrapped the towel around her and began drying her with the same thorough attention I'd given to washing her. Arms, legs, torso, between her thighs—gentle but firm, claiming every inch.
"I told you why I'm here," she said quietly. "I wanted to escape. To let someone else be in control."
"That's part of it." I guided her out of the bathroom and toward the bed, I retrieved a black silk robe and walked back toward her. "But there's more. I could see it in your eyes at the ball. The fear underneath the desire."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"I know. You're afraid of something else." I helped her into the robe, tying it at her waist. "And before this night is over, you're going to tell me what it is."
"That wasn't part of our agreement."
"Our agreement was for one night of whatever I wanted within your limits." I tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet my eyes. "And I want honesty. Complete honesty. That's non-negotiable."
She pulled away, wrapping her arms around herself. "You don't get to demand my secrets just because you paid for my body."
"You're right. I don't." I moved to the bar cart and poured two glasses of water, bringing one back to her. "Drink. All of it."
She took the glass but didn't drink, just stared at me with those eyes that held too many secrets for my liking.
"Here's what I think," I said, leaning against the bedpost. "I think you came to that auction looking for more than just escape.
I think you need something—money, protection, power, I don't know yet.
And I think whatever you need, it's important enough that you were willing to let strangers bid on you to get it. "
Her hand trembled slightly on the glass. "That’s presumptuous."
"I'm a Moretti. Reading people is literally part of my job description. I’m never wrong." I took a sip of my own water. "But I'm also a man who just spent the last hour making you come so hard you cried. So maybe we can skip the games and you could trust me with the truth."
"Why do you care?"
The question was valid. Why did I care? This was supposed to be a transaction.
A night of mutual pleasure with no strings attached.
But something about her called to me. The strength beneath the surrender.
The intelligence in her eyes even when she was begging.
The way she'd looked at me when I fed her lunch.
Like I was giving her something more precious than food.
"Because I want to make you an offer," I said, deciding on honesty. "But I can't do that until I understand what you actually need."
She stared at me for a long moment, then drained the water glass in one long swallow. When she finished, she set it down with deliberate care and met my eyes.
"I need a husband."
Of all the things I'd expected her to say, that wasn't it.
"Explain," I said, keeping my voice neutral despite the way my pulse had just kicked up.
"My mother died six months ago. Left me her company, Castellano & Co., in her will." She moved to the windows, staring out at the city. "But there were conditions. I have to be settled down within twelve months of her death, or everything goes to my uncle."
"Vincent DeLuca."
She whipped around. "You know him?"
"I know of him." I set my own glass down, my mind already racing.
Vincent DeLuca had connections to the Vitale family—one of our rivals.
He was also known for being ruthless, ambitious, and not particularly concerned with things like laws or morality.
I also knew his nephew Beniamino DeLuca.
He ran the drug trade and other avenues in Florida.
They were nothing alike though. Beni was a business man.
Vincent was just sleezy. "He's not a good man, Angelina. "
"I know." Her voice was small, scared in a way she hadn't been even when I'd had her tied to my bed. "He's already making threats. Subtle ones, but threats nonetheless. If I don't figure something out soon..."
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
I moved to stand beside her at the window, close enough to touch but not touching. "Six months left on your deadline."
"Yes."
"And you came to the auction hoping to find someone who could help you."
"No." She looked up at me. "I came to the auction hoping to forget about it for one night. To feel something other than terror and pressure and the weight of my mother's expectations. The fact that you're..." She gestured vaguely at me. "You. That's just coincidence."
"I don't believe in coincidence."
"Neither do I," she admitted. "But here we are."
Here we were indeed. I needed a wife. She needed a husband. We were sexually compatible in ways that made dick hard just thinking about it. And we were both running out of time.
"I'm going to make you an offer," I said. "But not right now."
Her brow furrowed. "Why not?"
"Because right now, you're still in subspace. Still floating. Still not thinking clearly." I traced my finger along her jaw. "And when I make this offer, I need you completely present and clear-headed. Able to make a rational decision."
"What kind of offer?"
"The kind that solves both our problems." I leaned down and kissed her forehead—gentle, chaste, completely at odds with how I'd fucked her. "But first, you're going to eat something. Then you're going to rest. And then, when you're ready, we'll talk."
"Dez—"
"That's not what you call me." My voice went hard, dominant, pulling her back into the dynamic we'd established.
"Sir," she corrected automatically.
"Better." I smiled and traced my thumb across her lower lip. "Now, are you going to be a good girl and let me feed you dinner? Or am I going to have to tie you to that chair again?"
Heat flared in her eyes. "Would that be such a punishment?"
This woman was going to destroy me.
"Bedroom," I commanded. "Lie down. Rest for an hour while I handle some work. Then we'll eat, and then—" I let the promise hang in the air, "—we'll see how well you handle a flogger."
Her breath caught. "I've never—"
"Good to know. That'll make it even more fun." I guided her toward the bed. "On your stomach. I'm going to set a timer. When it goes off, you come find me. Until then, you sleep."
"I'm not tired."
"You will be in about five minutes. That's how the crash works." I pulled back the covers, gesturing for her to get in. "Trust me."
She climbed into bed, and I covered her with the silk sheets and a soft blanket. By the time I'd turned on some quiet music and dimmed the lights, her eyes were already heavy.
"Dez?" she murmured.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For taking care of me."
Something in my chest tightened. "Always."
It was a promise I had no right to make. We'd known each other less than twenty-four hours. We'd had one scene together. But watching her fall asleep in my bed, her hair spread across my pillow, her body relaxed and trusting—I knew I was going to keep that promise. Whatever it took.
I left her sleeping and moved to my office, pulling out my phone.
I had calls to make. Research to do. If I was going to propose a marriage contract to Angelina, I needed to know everything about her situation, about Vincent DeLuca, and what I was getting us both into.
Because I had a feeling this was going to be a lot more complicated than either of us anticipated.
But as I sat down at my desk and started making calls, I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face.
Angelina Castellano needed a husband. Desmond Moretti needed a wife. Looked like fate had finally decided to do me a favor.