Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bianca
Two days.
It's been two days since Dante tore Adrian's shirt off me and looked at me like—
I can't finish that thought without my face heating up.
Two days of avoiding him in this massive house.
Two days of eating meals alone while Maria gives me sympathetic looks.
Two days of lying in bed at night remembering the way his voice dropped when he said mine, the way his fingers brushed my skin, the way my body betrayed every word that came out of my mouth.
I hate that I can't stop thinking about it.
Hate that I dream about those blue eyes darkening with barely restrained hunger as it did that night.
Hate that some traitorous parts of me wanted him to close that distance instead of stepping back. Wet parts.
Basically, I hate this place.
I'm walking down the hallway toward my room, arms full of papers I brought home from school, when I hear footsteps behind me.
"Bianca."
I stiffen and stay right where I am without turning to face him.
"What?"
"We need to discuss your wardrobe for my father's party."
"I thought you already handled that by throwing away my clothes and replacing them with your… selections."
"I did. But you need to try on the gown I chose. Make sure it fits."
Now I do turn around. He's standing there in another one of those perfect suits he always seems to have on, hands in his pockets, looking completely unaffected while I feel like I'm going to combust from the sheer proximity.
"I'm not trying on dresses for you like some kind of—"
"Doll?" His eyebrow arches. "We've established you're not a doll, Miss Mancini. You're far too opinionated for that."
I grit my teeth. "I'm not doing it."
"Yes, you are." He takes a step closer. "Because in three days, you're going to meet my father, my family, and several very important people. And you're going to look the part. Which means we need to ensure the dress fits properly."
"Then have Maria check it."
"Maria isn't the one who needs to see you in it." Another step. "I am."
I bite my lips, wondering if I have any more excuses that can get me out of this situation.
I have none.
"Fine," I snap. "Where's the dress?"
"In your room, I would presume."
I push past him—have to brush against him in the narrow hallway—and the brief contact sends a jolt through me that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
My room door is closed. I shove it open, toss my papers on the desk, and head for the closet.
The dress is impossible to miss.
It's hanging in the center, covered in protective plastic, and even through the covering I can tell it's expensive. Designer. The kind of thing I'd never touch in a store because just looking at it costs money.
I pull off the plastic and stare open mouthed.
It's emerald green—deep, rich. The bodice is structured, almost corset-like, with a sweetheart neckline that plunges lower than anything I've ever worn. The skirt flows in layers of silk that catch the light, and there's a slit up one side that looks like it goes dangerously high.
It's beautiful.
It's also completely inappropriate for a schoolteacher from Queens.
"Put it on."
I spin around. Dante's standing in my doorway, shoulder against the frame, watching me.
"I didn't say you could come in."
"It's my house."
"It's my room."
"Semantics." He straightens. "Put it on. I want to see it."
"I can tell you if it fits—"
"I need to see it. On you. Now."
The command in his voice makes my jaw clench. But arguing seems pointless when he's clearly not going to leave until he gets what he wants.
"Turn around."
"No."
"Dante—"
"You have thirty seconds to start changing or I'll assume you need help with the zipper."
My face burns. "You're impossible."
"Twenty-five seconds."
I grab the dress and storm into the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
"Mature," he calls through the door.
I don't dignify that with a response.
Getting into the dress takes longer than it should because my hands are shaking—from anger, I tell myself, definitely from anger—and the zipper is positioned in that impossible spot between the shoulder blades that requires contortionist skills.
I manage to get it halfway up before admitting defeat.
"I need help with the zipper," I call out, hating every word.
Silence. So much silence that I almost think he left.
Then.
"Open the door."
I do, keeping my back to him, one hand holding the dress against my chest, my eyes closed.
He walks up behind me, his steps so quiet on the cool tile I only know he’s there by the shift in the air, the subtle warmth of a body moving close to mine. Every part of me is focused on the space between my shoulder blades where I know he’ll touch me first.
And then he does.
His fingers make a slow, tracing brush along the line of my spine that makes every fine hair on my body stand at attention. My knees go weak, a sudden, liquid feeling that threatens to buckle them, and I have to lock my joints to stay upright.
Shit.
“Breathe,” he purrs. His mouth is so close to my neck I can feel the ghost of his breath, warm and moist, skating over my skin. It raises a fresh wave of goosebumps.
His other hand comes up, not to touch me, but to take the metal tag of my zipper between his thumb and forefinger. The tiny sound it makes is deafening in the quiet room. Click. Shhh-click.
He begins to pull it up.
It is an impossibly slow ascent. The metal teeth knit together with a soft, rasping hum that vibrates directly into my bones. His knuckles, the hard, smooth points of them, graze the valley of my spine with every fractional inch he gains.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. The sensation is maddening. It’s not enough, and it’s far too much. My nipples tighten into hard, aching points, straining against the silky fabric of the dress, rubbing with every shallow, caught breath I take.
He pauses halfway up, his hand splaying flat against my back. He groans softly and applies the faintest pressure, just enough to make me arch my back slightly, a silent invitation I don’t mean to give but can’t help. A small, desperate sound escapes me.
“So responsive,” he murmurs, his voice thick with a dark pleasure that makes my stomach clench. His thumb begins to move, making small, deliberate circles just to the left of my spine, a slow, grinding pressure that unravels me thread by thread.
The zipper moves again, another inch. This time, his fingertips follow its path on the inside of the dress, skating over my bare skin.
The contrast of the cool metal track and his warm, seeking fingers is exquisite torture.
I can feel the calluses on his fingertips, a slight roughness that catches on my smooth skin, making me gasp.
His other hand leaves my back, and for a heart-stopping second, I think he’s done.
But then it returns, his fingers skating down my side, from the curve of my ribs to the swell of my hip.
He traces the line of my body like he’s memorizing it, his touch feather-light yet devastatingly possessive.
I feel myself trembling, a fine, constant shake I hope he can’t detect.
He hooks a finger into the now-closed top of my dress and gives the faintest tug, pulling me back against him.
I feel the solid, unyielding wall of his chest, the hard press of his belt buckle against the small of my back.
My head falls back against his shoulder, my eyes fluttering closed. The scent of him fills my senses.
His mouth finds the incredibly sensitive spot just below my ear. He doesn’t kiss it. He just… hovers. Oh, my goodness, I am wound so tightly I feel I might scream.
And then, abruptly, his hands are gone.
"There." His hands settle on my shoulders, his voice a growl. "Let's see."
He turns me around gently, and I have no choice but to face him.
His expression doesn't change. But his eyes—God, his eyes go dark in that way that makes my stomach flip.
"Walk," he says quietly. "Let me see how it moves."
I step out of the bathroom on shaky legs, hyper-aware of how the dress fits. How it hugs my waist, lifts my breasts, flows around my legs. The slit reveals most of my thigh with every step.
I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like I'm wearing nothing at all. But, my God, the dress is exquisite.
Dante circles me slowly, and I force myself to stand still even though every instinct is screaming to cover up.
He stops behind me. I feel him adjust something at my shoulder, the strap, maybe. His fingers linger.
Then he sweeps my hair off my shoulder, his touch feather-light against my neck.
I bite down on my lip to keep from making a sound.
"Perfect," he says, his voice deeper than before. He comes around to face me. "You'll wear this to the party."
I clear my throat, once. Twice.
"I figured that was the plan." My voice still comes out breathless.
"You don't need to try on anything else."
"Good. Because I wasn't planning to."
We're standing too close. Again. Like gravity keeps pulling us together even when we're trying to maintain distance.
His gaze drops to where my hand has unconsciously found the gold cross at my throat, fingers worrying the pendant.
"You do that when you're nervous," he observes.
I drop my hand immediately. "I-I'm not nervous."
"Uh huh." His hand comes up, and I think he's going to touch the pendant too, but instead his fingers trail along my collarbone. Slow. "Your pulse is racing."
"Because you're in my space."
"Am I?" He steps closer, eliminating what little distance remained. "Or is it because you're remembering two nights ago? When I had you half-naked and trembling?"
Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly. "Stop."
"Stop what?" His fingers continue their path, tracing the edge of the dress's neckline. "You're thinking about it right now, aren’t you? About how you looked at me. How your body responded."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." His thumb brushes across the swell of my breast, just above the fabric, and I can't stop the sharp intake of breath. "Just like it's responding now."
My nipples tighten almost painfully against the structured bodice, and I know he can see it. The stupidly beautiful dress hides nothing.
"Dante—" His name comes out breathy, weak.
"Say it again." His voice drops lower. "Say my name like that again."
I bite my lip, trying to hold back, but when his thumb grazes lower—a barely-there touch over the silk covering my breast—a sound escapes me. Something between a gasp and a moan that I can't stop.
I have not been this turned on since… well ever.
His eyes go so dark they're almost black, filled with raw hunger that makes my knees weak.
Shit, I need to escape, I need him to leave, I need him to touch me—
"That's what I thought," he murmurs. "Your mouth says you hate me, but your body tells a different story."
He can probably tell how wet I am just from the way I'm breathing. The way I'm swaying toward him instead of away.
"This is wrong," I manage to say.
"Probably." His hand moves to my waist, spanning it easily. "Does that make you want it less?"
No. God, no, it makes me want it more, and that terrifies me. He must see the answer in my face because his grip tightens slightly, possessive.
Then he steps back.
The loss of contact is jarring, like being plunged into cold water.
What the fuck is wrong with him?!
He adjusts his cufflinks, his expression smoothing back into that controlled mask. Like he didn't just have his hands on me. Like he can't see me struggling to breathe.
"I have to go to dinner with Congressman Patterson tonight," he says, his voice still rough around the edges. "The deal I mentioned."
It takes me a moment to process the words through the haze. "Congratulations. Have fun."
"You're coming with me."
My stomach drops. "What? No. I have school tomorrow—"
"You'll be back by ten. And you need the practice."
"Practice?"
"Playing the role. Being my girlfriend in public." His eyes meet mine, and there's still heat there, barely banked. "My father's party is in three days. Imagine this dinner is a trial run."
"I'm not ready—"
"You're ready." He gestures to the dress I'm still wearing. "Change. We leave at six-thirty. Wear something appropriate but understated."
"You can't just order me to—"
"I can. I am." He heads for the door, pauses at the threshold. "And Bianca? Leave your hair down tonight. I like it that way."
Then he's gone.
And I'm left standing in this ridiculous, beautiful dress, breathing hard, my body still humming from his touch.
Trying to figure out when exactly I lost control of this situation.
When I started wanting things I absolutely shouldn't want from a man who owns me.