2. Valaria
Valaria
Ilove espresso—strong and dark.
But an arrogant brute who mansplains tops my list of things I can’t tolerate.
In a word—Pietro Cucinotta.
Moments ago, we stood inches apart—the tension between us thick enough to cut with a steak knife.
Best Man. Maid of Honor.
Shoulder to shoulder, we posed for the only photographer allowed inside the gates—photos for a family album, not the media. Even so, Pietro didn’t smile. It’s true, he steps on my every nerve, but I love to watch him sweat.
The wedding party moves as one into the ballroom. My cousin Emma, and the love of her life, Luca, step into a waltz. Her gown—embroidered silver and gold with my own needle—sweeps across the marble floor as they twirl together with expert ease.
Willing myself to hold back tears, whether for joy or sadness, I don’t know—I head for the nearest exit. I lean against the cold metal of the gate, panting like I’ve run a marathon.
Flashbulbs light up the evergreen forest that separates the palazzo from the city.
Paparazzi.
Not wanting to give them any satisfaction, I turn away.
A hulking shadow blocks the moonlight.
“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Pietro growls. “Next time you slip away from the ballroom without an escort?—”
“I don’t break easy, Pietro.”
We’re toe to toe. Neither of us backing down.
He’s taller. Broader. Built like a mythical man sculpted of marble. His face–a hardened mask. I refuse to flinch. I lift my chin. He lowers his.
And suddenly, there’s only breath between us. His jaw tightens. My pulse jumps. I hate him—I do.
The air is charged like the moment before lightning strikes.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
I see it. I feel it. My thoughts reel.
Kiss me—get it over with. Kiss me, you arrogant bastard.
And for one heart-shattering moment, I want him to close the gap. To grab me. To swallow me whole.
The electrical charge between us is killing me.
My breath hitches against my will. Pietro reaches out, his fingers brushing the strand of hair that has fallen across my face. His touch is light, almost reverent. It sends a jolt of heat through me.
“You’re irresistible,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Even when you’re hating me.”
My chest tightens, my anger warring with the sudden rush of desire that floods my veins. I want to push him away, to remind him of our professional boundaries, but my body has other ideas. “You’re impossible,” I whisper.
Pietro’s gaze darkens. He cups my face; his thumb brushes my cheek. “Maybe we’re both impossible.” His voice, thick. “But we’re here, aren’t we? Alone. In the dark.”
His lips crash against mine. A collision of pent-up frustration and unspoken desire. I pull him closer, surrendering to the moment. His tongue tangles with mine, leaving me breathless.
His heart pounds against my breasts–a hero’s heart in a traitor’s world. His body is rigid with restraint. As his hands slide down my bare back, my nipples tighten–my own restraint slips away. I breathe in the scent of him—musk and leather.
Uniquely Pietro.
Intoxicating.
His lips trail down my jawline, his breath hot against my skin. “Valaria,” he groans, his voice hoarse with need. “Tell me to stop. Please.”
“I can’t.”
He finds my nipples covered with silk. Pinches softly. Kisses the rise of my breasts. I will myself to stop trembling, but I fail.
I ‘d tell myself I didn’t wear a neckline just short of indecent to entice him, but I’d be lying. I want to tell him to stop, but the words won’t come.
Pietro’s hands move lower, his fingers brushing the curve of my hips. His hard desire presses against me.
This is madness.
But at this moment, logic is a distant memory.
His kiss deepens. My mind fogs with pleasure. My body aches for more. I want him— his mouth on mine, his muscular body naked on mine.
My nipples beg for his lips. But reason pulls me back.
“No, we can’t do this.”
Pietro’s eyes snap open. “What?”
“This,” I repeat. “We can’t. We… we’ll hate ourselves—each other—even more.”
“You wanted this.” Pietro clenches his jaw. “Was I wrong?”
“Very.”
I shove past him.
Not because I win.
Because if I don’t, I’ll lose more than the argument.
I’ll lose control.
Later, the guests gather under the full moon drenching the garden with light—and shadows.
He’s watching me again. His gaze alone is a weight pressed against my spine. Heavy. Hot. Possessive. My skin prickles—yearning to be touched again.
Damn him. Damn his ridiculous jaw and his darker-than-sin stare like there’s mayhem on his mind—or sex.
And damn me, too—for liking it—wanting it.
I want to hate it. I want to spit fire and turn cold. I don’t want to feel anything when he looks at me like that.
But I do.
May the gods help me before I fall.
In the distance, lightning strikes—thunder rolls.
I spot him across the garden, untucked shirt, lopsided bow tie, grinning like the devil has given him the weekend off.
The moment he sees me, he frowns—resuming his ever-present scowl like he’s contemplating murder.
Not intimidated by the threat of force, I advance.
“Why are you glaring?” he asks.
“Why are you breathing?”
“Charming,” he replies. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For reminding me.”
“Of what?” He gives me the once over.
“Long-stemmed roses have thorns.”
I fan scarlet nails across my face. . .and wink.
“Ah, did I prick your overly inflated ego?”
Pietro sizes me up—shoves his strong hands into his pockets.
“You said stop. I stopped.”
Why him? Why him, of all people?
He drives me insane. Every conversation feels like war.
Unfortunately, in three weeks, we’ll be working together on a classified operation masquerading as a diplomatic gala.
If we don’t kill each other first…