Chapter 2 Belle #2
Our eyes lock across the distance. He smiles—not his business smile from the office.
This is different. Predatory. Knowing.
Like he can smell my arousal from three floors down.
He knocks out his opponent without breaking eye contact.
I stumble back from the window, heart hammering, thighs trembling, every cell in my body screaming two different things:
Run.
Or let him catch you.
I tear my eyes away, but the damage is done.
The image of him and all that skin is burned into my retinas like I stared at the sun too long.
I should be mad at him. But somehow, I'm starting to wonder whether the beast really had a say in all this.
He asked for my father's most prized asset… how did he know that would be me?
Dad knew what he was doing. He knew where he was taking me today.
He knew he was delivering me like a pizza to Luca Moretti's doorstep. And he did it anyway.
At least Moretti is upfront about what he wants. Dad just... lied.
For years, apparently. About the business, our finances, everything.
I'm so lost in these thoughts that I don't hear it at first—the thundering of paws on hardwood.
By the time I register the sound, it's too late.
Something massive, furry and black barrels around the corner, heading straight for me.
I freeze, because what else can you do when a horse-sized dog is charging at you?
"Oh shi—"
That's all I get out before I'm knocked flat on my ass, the wind whooshing out of my lungs like someone popped me, my dress riding up my thighs.
For a terrifying second, I think this is it—death by canine.
But instead of tearing my throat out, the beast starts... licking my face?
"Ugh! Stop! Down! Off!" I splutter, trying to protect myself from the slobbery assault.
The dog, which I now see is a Great Dane the size of a small pony, ignores me completely, tail wagging so hard his entire back end sways.
"Bruno! Down!"
The dog immediately backs off, sitting pretty like he hasn't just committed first-degree assault with his tongue.
I look up—way up—to find Luca standing over me.
Still shirtless. Still sweaty. Still looking like violence and sex had a baby and raised it on protein shakes and danger.
"You okay down there?" His voice holds laughter he isn't quite hiding.
"Peachy. I love being tackled by bears."
"He's a Great Dane."
"He's a lawsuit waiting to happen."
That gets me an actual smile. Not a smirk, not a predatory grin—a real smile that hits me worse than the dog did.
It transforms his face from dangerous to devastating.
"Come on." He offers his hand. "Unless you prefer the view from down there?"
His eyes deliberately track down my body, reminding me that my dress is still somewhere around my ribs, my pink underwear on full display like a virgin sacrifice flag.
I should stand on my own. Should maintain some distance, some dignity, some sanity.
Instead, I grab his hand.
The contact hits like mainlining electricity.
His palm engulfs mine, calluses rough against my skin, strong enough to snap my bones but gentle enough to make me wonder what else those hands can do.
He pulls me up slowly. Deliberately.
Making me feel every inch of the journey, until I stand close enough to see sweat still beading on his chest.
Close enough to smell him—clean sweat and danger and something that makes my mouth water.
"Your dress," he says, voice dropping an octave.
I look down. It's still hiked up, twisted and indecent.
His hands move to my hips. Not touching. Just hovering, heat radiating from his palms through the thin fabric.
"May I?"
Two words that shouldn't make me combust.
But the way he says them—like he's asking permission to do so much more than fix my dress—has me nodding before my brain can intervene.
His hands grip the fabric, knuckles brushing my skin as he slowly, torturously, pulls the dress down.
The fabric drags across sensitized skin, his fingers tracing lines of fire even through the material.
"There." His hands linger on my hips. "All respectable again."
Respectable. Right. That's definitely what I'm feeling with his hands on me and my underwear soaked through.
And then the thought slams into me.
Would it really be so bad to let a man like him be the first?
"You were watching me fight." Not a question.
"The window was there." My voice comes out breathless, stupid.
"So were you." He steps closer, backing me against the wall. "For twenty minutes."
Twenty minutes? Have I really stood there that long, panting after him like a dog in heat?
"I was exploring the house." The lie sounds weak even to me.
"You were eye-fucking me through bulletproof glass."
The crude words from his cultured mouth make heat pool instantly between my legs. "I was not—"
"Your pupils are dilated." Another step. I have nowhere to go. "Your pulse is racing—I can see it here." His finger ghosts over my throat, not quite touching. "And you keep pressing your thighs together like you're trying to relieve something."
"That's because a dog just attacked me."
"That's because you're imagining what I'd feel like between those thighs."
The words hit like a slap and a caress combined. Direct. Crude. Accurate.
"You don't know what I'm thinking," I manage.
He leans down, lips brushing my ear. "I know you're wet right now. I know if I put my hand under that pretty dress, you'd be soaked. I know you're wondering if I fuck as hard as I fight."
My knees actually buckle. He catches me, one arm around my waist, pulling me against him.
Every inch of him is hard muscle and heat.
"I do," he whispers against my ear. "Harder."
Then he lets go, steps back, and walks away like he hasn't just detonated a bomb in my underwear.
Back in my room, I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.
What am I doing here? What does Moretti actually want from me?
The "you belong to me" bit was clear enough, but what does that mean in practical terms?
Am I supposed to be his maid? His arm candy? His...
My mind goes places it shouldn't.
Places involving those tattooed arms pinning me down. Those intense eyes watching me come undone.
That mouth, set in a hard line, doing things that make me gasp and beg.
Jesus, Belle. Get it together.
The problem is, I've never been good at relationships.
My dating history is basically a collection of the cheaters, the mama's boys, the ones who weren't "looking for anything serious right now" but were engaged six months later to someone else.
And through it all, I've somehow managed to keep my V-card.
Not for lack of trying, mind you. Just a combination of bad timing, and worse luck.
And it's strange, but one little whiff of Luca Moretti, and my body is lighting up like Times Square on New Year's Eve.
I groan and close my eyes. This is so inappropriate… so wrong.
My skin feels too tight. My breath comes too fast.
Every nerve ending he's lit up still sparks like live wires.
I can still feel him—his heat, his hands, the promise in his voice when he said "harder."
This is insane. He's holding me hostage.
I should be planning escape, not imagining those scarred hands on my body.
Not wondering if his control in the ring translates to the bedroom.
Not desperate to know what that mouth would feel like between my...
"Stop," I tell myself.
But my hands are already moving. To my breast, squeezing through the dress. Down my stomach. Under the hem.
My fingers find evidence of my complete moral collapse—I'm drenched. Ready.
Aching for a man who's bought me like property.
"Fuck," I gasp, but my fingers are already moving, circling my clit through soaked cotton.
In my mind, they aren't my fingers. They're his—rough, demanding, skilled.
His mouth at my throat, teeth scraping. His voice in my ear telling me exactly what he plans to do to me.
How he'll take me apart piece by piece until I beg.
"Luca." His name breaks from my lips as I push my underwear aside, fingers sliding through wetness.
I find that spot, that rhythm, hips rocking against my hand.
In my fantasy, he has me pinned to this bed, that powerful body covering mine, those gray eyes watching me fall apart beneath him.
"Please," I whimper to my empty room, chasing release like it could cure this insanity.
The pressure builds violent and fast. My back arches, his name on my lips again...
The door opens.
I freeze mid-gasp, fingers still buried inside myself, dress rucked up around my waist.
Luca stands in my doorway. Hair still damp from a shower. Gray sweatpants riding low on his hips.
His eyes take in everything—my position, my hand between my thighs, the flush on my chest.
For one eternal second, we stare at each other.
Predator and prey, except I'm not sure which is which anymore.
Then his eyes go dark as winter storms.