Chapter 21
CRISTIAN
“The red one.”
Chantel pauses mid-search through her closet to shoot me a look.
I arch a brow at her, daring her to say she doesn’t like it when I tell her what to do. She likes it so much, she doesn’t even realize she has a tell.
It’s a familiar pattern, the way her breath catches and she looks away, as if that could hide the rapid beat of her pulse.
In the beginning, it was something I wished I hadn’t noticed.
I had a plan for my life, and it didn’t include emotional entanglements. I’d seen the consequences of such relationships, particularly within my own family. I had no interest in being a willing captive to that affliction.
When I imagined the woman I’d inevitably spend my life with, it was someone practical, strategic, and low risk.
Chantel doesn’t fit into any of those categories.
Every inch of trust I gain from her is hard-won, and the question mark behind her identity is as high-risk as it gets. She’s the furthest thing from uncomplicated or practical, and she’s also a flight risk—which, as it turns out, I fucking hate.
For the past three years, between thoughts of handcuffing her to my bed and settling for Stockholm Syndrome, I’ve tried to purge this addiction.
But it was already too late. My obsession with her had crept in silently like a slow-acting venom, poisoning my blood before I even knew I was in its grip.
One taste of her was all it took for me to know what real hunger was.
Now that I’ve been inside her, I’ll never allow anyone else to have her.
“You’ll have to be more specific.” She eyes the various shades of red dresses hanging from the rack.
I approach her from behind, pressing against her back as my hand settles over the curve of her hip. Traveling downward, my fingers find the hem of her skirt and drag it up her thigh at a criminally slow pace.
A wave of goosebumps ripples over her, and she sucks in a breath, torn between battle and surrender.
The way her body responds to me terrifies her. She doesn’t want to want this. But right now, those fears are overshadowed by her desire.
She lets me strip her down until the only barrier left between us is a thong soaked with my cum. The imprints of last night still mark her skin, and seeing her so thoroughly owned satisfies the animal in me far too much.
It’s a balm to the torment of the last three years. Now, I want to do it on repeat so she never forgets who she belongs to again.
My palm scrapes over her bare breast as the other one dips between her thighs. She softens against me as I breathe her in and kiss her neck, torturing her with the slow slide of my fingers.
“Do you want to come, gattina?” I brush the words against her ear.
“Yes,” she murmurs.
“Then be a good girl for me tonight.”
I withdraw my fingers from her pussy and grab the red dress from the rack.
“You can’t be serious.” She turns to glare at me. “You’re just going to leave me hanging?”
“What part was unclear?” I unzip the dress and pull it over her head.
She adjusts the bodice and smooths the material over her hips. “Where are we even going?”
“You’ll see.”
I sweep her hair over her shoulder and zip her up, then turn her to face the mirror.
“Non esiste donna che possa eguagliarti.” I settle a possessive hand over her throat as I take her in.
This dress has had a feature role in my most depraved thoughts since I first saw her in it.
It’s strapless with a low cut that bares her shoulders and the smooth skin along her back.
The material has a silky sheen that gives it an almost liquid appearance, and it wraps around every curve on her body so perfectly, there’s not a chance anyone will miss her.
I’ve already imagined a thousand different ways I’d fuck her in it, but it serves a more significant purpose tonight.
“You know I don’t speak Italian,” she says.
“Then I guess you’ll have to learn.” I tip her head back, and my gaze drops to her lips.
Her heart beats a little faster as we linger in that moment, and she waits to see what I’ll do. I want to taste her, but I won’t take it from her until she gives it freely.
Reluctantly, I release her and step back, and we both take a breath.
“I just need a few minutes to touch up my makeup,” she tells me.
I nod, giving her some space while I wait in the living room.
When she reappears a few minutes later, she’s wearing lipstick that matches her dress and gold heels that wrap around her ankles.
I’m appreciating the view until she drops to her knees in front of me, holding my gaze as she unbuckles my belt and opens my trousers.
“What are you doing, gattina?” I ask as she strokes the length of my cock through my briefs.
“Since you like delayed gratification so much—” She peels down the fabric and wraps her fingers around me. “It only seems fair that you get to experience it too.”
She darts her tongue out, teasing the head of my cock before she milks the precum from the tip. Watching her lap it up will live rent-free in my head, but I already know that’s where it ends.
To prove her point, she presses a kiss to my shaft, leaving behind a red lipstick print. Then she tucks me back into my briefs and zips me up.
“A souvenir.” She smiles up at me.
“I’m a patient man.” I reach down to graze her jaw with my fingers. “Leave as many souvenirs as you’d like.”
Her face warms beneath my gaze, lips parting as my thumb traces over them. This is the dynamic she lives for. She needs to feel protected and she needs to feel chosen, even though it scares her.
After tonight, she’ll understand she was never just an option.
“Come here, principessa.” I help her to her feet. “There’s one more thing before we go.”
I retrieve the cornicello necklace Nonna gave her and drape it around her neck.
“Are you ever going to tell me what this means?” She touches it as I secure the clasp.
“Eventually.”
“When?”
“When you’re ready to surrender.”
She swallows, her voice softening at the edges. “Don’t hold your breath, Cristian.”
I press a kiss beneath the hollow of her ear. “We’ll see.”
“What are we doing here?” Chantel’s gaze drifts over the water, her expression shifting when she realizes we’re leaving the marina.
“Making a statement.”
She glances up at me in concern as we draw the attention of the crowd. “People aren’t going to like this.”
I wrap an arm around her, pulling her close as I murmur in her ear. “They can adjust.”
“Cristian—”
Her body stiffens as she takes in the gazes of the curious onlookers. She’s used to being treated poorly because it’s what Marco allowed. That ends now.
With enough witnesses I’m confident that word will spread fast, I tip her face toward mine.
Her breath hitches as my thumb traces her jaw, and she holds my gaze so long, there can be no question where she belongs.
Still, to be thorough, I brush my lips against her cheek with the intention of giving her a quick kiss.
But when she shivers, I keep going—to the hollow below her ear and down her neck.
My name catches in her throat, reminding me we have an audience.
Reluctantly, I turn my attention to the attendees of the Sterling’s yacht party, confirming we’ve captured their interest. I could think of at least fifty other things I’d rather be doing with Chantel right now, but tonight serves a purpose.
“This way, gattina.”
I keep Chantel close as we make our way through the crowd.
It doesn’t take long for her to notice the shift. Several women compliment her on her dress as we pass by, while others offer polite smiles.
“I don’t know if I should be offended or relieved,” she remarks. “Apparently, I’m acceptable company now that I’ve arrived with you.”
“Drink this.” I swipe a glass of champagne from a passing server. “You’re going to need it.”
Concern flickers in her eyes as she looks up at me. “What does that mean?”
“It’s nothing to worry about.”
There isn’t time for her to overanalyze it. A few associates and their wives stop us along the way, engaging us in conversation. While I discuss business, the women make their move, extending invitations to Chantel for various social events over the coming weeks.
In the world of Society wives, it’s an important distinction to lay claim to a friendship that will benefit them in some way. In this case, the benefit is not getting on the bad side of the Vitales.
Most of it is surface level, but I know at least one of them is genuine.
Audrey Hawthorne is a relatively new addition to The Society, and she has little interest in playing social chess matches.
She’s a former blackjack dealer Daniel Hawthorne met in Vegas on one of his business trips, and when he married her six months later, it seemed to be all anyone could talk about.
She’s weathered her own share of storms with this crowd, and she has a low tolerance for bullshit.
I’m not surprised to see her and Chantel getting along well.
They talk amongst themselves while Daniel asks if I’ve had a chance to review the projections on his hotel investment.
We spend a few minutes discussing revenue forecasts, occupancy rates, and the expected timeline to profitability before I catch Chantel listening in with a curious expression.
I imagine she’s wondered what it is I actually do at my office. There’s a general assumption that acquisitions and investments is code for something more sinister. But despite rumors to the contrary, I don’t spend my days systematically destroying my enemies. I’m far more efficient than that.
In the Cosa Nostra, every business has two sides. One for the tax records—and one for the family.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Daniel asks Chantel. “The way he remembers numbers like that. I’ve never met a more analytical mind.”
“He is very…detail oriented.” Chantel smirks into her champagne glass. “His reputation as a hot math nerd precedes him.”
Daniel nearly chokes on his whiskey as he tries to gauge my reaction, and Audrey laughs.
“You seemed to appreciate my attention to detail last night,” I answer dryly.