Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Valentina
“Shall we show him?” Randy asks.
It’s awful on me, and we both know it.
But having no choice, I shrug. After smoothing the skirt, I leave the room, make my way to the waiting area, and step up onto the platform.
Dante leans forward this time, elbows on knees, his dark eyes tracing the curve of my neck, the swell of my cleavage, the way the tulle flares around my hips. His gaze is a caress, igniting sparks along my skin, and I feel exposed, vulnerable under that intensity.
My breath shortens, pulse racing in my ears, a mix of fury and arousal that makes my thighs clench.
He sits back, shakes his head once. “Even though you are a princess, this is too fairytale-like. It softens you too much. You’re not fragile, Valentina.
I want to see you in something that matches your fire. ”
No doubt naked would work for him.
Back in the dressing room, Randy selects another, a sheath with intricate lace overlay, cap sleeves, and a deep V-neck that plunges between my breasts. The lace is delicate against my skin, patterns of flowers and vines that itch slightly but mold to my body, the silk beneath smooth and warm.
It clings to every curve, the train minimal, emphasizing my height, my poise. I turn, the lace shifting with me, and feel a spark of confidence—this one asserts power, sensual without excess.
But as I emerge, Dante’s eyes darken, hunger flashing before he masks it. He stands, circles the platform—me—slowly, his footsteps measured, the air thickening with his proximity.
Heat radiates from him, and I smell his cologne, citrus and masculine, stirring memories of his body against mine.
His hand brushes my arm as he passes, a deliberate graze that sends electricity through me, settling between my legs.
“Closer,” he murmurs, stopping in front of me, his breath warm on my skin. “But the lace is too busy. It distracts from you.”
This is rejection but laced with approval, his voice rough, eyes tracing the V-neck with blatant desire. Emotion floods—frustration at his pickiness, arousal from his nearness, a budding trust that he wants me seen as I am, not diminished.
“How about if you give us a better idea of what you’re looking for, Mr. Moretti?” Randy summons an assistant, and she returns with a couple of other selections.
There’s a trumpet silhouette with beaded bodice and flowing skirt that Moretti dismisses as being “too flashy, not enough substance.”
The flowy bohemian number with sheer sleeves is turned down because “it’s too free-spirited, not commanding enough for a Moretti bride.”
Frustrated, I prop my hands on my hips.
He’s exhausted me.
“Go back to the dressing room.” His voice is commanding but undercut by a softness that shocks me. “I’ll find something.”
At this point, I’d wear a potato sack.
As Randy leads Moretti away, I pour another cup of coffee. The caffeine in the last has barely touched my veins.
Surprising me, the pot is fresh.
Nothing but the finest service for Moretti.
With an appreciative sigh, I take a drink. Then, on my way back to the room, I snag a second sandwich.
Once I’m there, the assistant helps me back into the robe. For a few minutes, I get to sip in peace.
A few minutes later, Randy joins me.
This dress is shockingly beautiful.
It’s a mermaid style with a strapless bodice, subtle beading, and tulle cascade.
When I step into it, the fabric embraces me like a second skin. It’s warm and luxurious, and the beads are cool points of light against my breasts.
The gown hugs my hips while flaring at the knees.
The train is just long enough to be perfectly elegant.
“Have a look.” Randy turns me to the mirror.
My breath freezes in my chest.
This is perfect for me, in every way.
“What do you think?” But with the way Randy’s smiling and his eyes are twinkling, I know he’s not expecting an answer.
“It’s…” From every angle, I study myself critically. Even after a full minute, I can’t find a single fault, even though I’m very much aware of every one of my flaws.
“Perfect?”
I hate to admit that. But it’s feminine, sensual, powerful. Totally me. “Did you select it?”
He shakes his head. “Actually you can thank your future husband for this.”
How can he know me so completely?
A knock on the door shakes me out of my shocked reverie.
Without either of us responding, the door opens, and the Moretti underboss fills the space.
In the mirror, our gazes lock.
“Fuck.”
His eyes flare with fire, then narrow with possession.
“This is the one.” His voice is gravel, filled with approval.
Emotion crashes through me.
He sees me, truly sees me, as the woman, not just Fabrizio’s daughter.
Slowly he moves toward me, and Randy makes a strategic exit, pulling the door closed behind him.
Now that we’re alone, the room feels even smaller.
Moretti moves in behind me to trail his fingertips down my exposed spine, leaving fire in his wake. “It’s you. Fierce, unbreakable.”
He’s right. And I hate how much he is.
The reflections of our gazes are locked, and my lips are parted from the breath I can’t manage to steady.
My brain races to save me.
This is the man who kidnapped me, drugged me, turned my life into a bargaining chip for his family’s revenge, yet here he stands, having picked a dress that hugs every curve I’ve always guarded, that makes me look powerful and sensual and utterly, dangerously myself.
The realization twists something deep inside me—anger, yes, sharp and familiar, but threaded through with a reluctant warmth.
Before I can summon the sarcasm that I need to shield myself and keep him at arm’s length, he steps onto the platform.
His chest brushes my back, the crisp fabric of his shirt whispering against the bare skin between my shoulder blades.
Instantly his possessive heat envelops me, and I feel the solid wall of him, his broad shoulders, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the restrained power coiled in every muscle.
Despite myself, my stomach tightens in a knot of anticipation.
He turns me slowly, his hands firm on my shoulders, guiding me until we face each other.
The mirrors multiply us endlessly—me in white silk that clings to my hips and flares at the knees, him in his dark suit, the contrast stark and intimate.
His dark eyes lock on mine, and for a heartbeat, the intensity there softens into something raw, almost hungry in a way that goes beyond conquest.
Then he lowers his head, and his mouth brushes mine.
His kiss starts gentle, a deliberate exploration that catches me off guard.
I should pull away.
My mind screams the order—remember the lamp, the locked room, the way he carried me out of my life like I belonged to him—but my body refuses the command.
Against my better judgment, I lift my hands to curl my fingers into the front of his shirt.
The luxurious material bunches under my grip as I pull him closer.
Groaning low in response, he deepens the kiss.
With his tongue, he traces the seam of my lips until I open my mouth for him. Then he’s inside, stroking, claiming, the rhythm slow at first but building with every shared breath.
He kisses like a man who has waited too long, and he slides his tongue against mine in long, deliberate strokes that send sparks racing down my spine.
A low sound escapes me, half protest, half plea, and he swallows it as he slides his hand from my shoulder to cup the back of my neck.
Deliberately he tilts my head until I’m exactly where he wants me.
The bodice of my gown feels suddenly too tight, the structured cups lifting my breasts while the fabric squeezes them together, making every inhale press them fuller against the silk.
But I’m lost as his free hand moves down my chest, and he glides across the edge of the strapless neckline.
Then I feel the deliberate press of his fingertips as he works them beneath the fabric.
Even though the gown’s boning is unyielding, he’s patient and relentless as he pushes past the barrier.
I shouldn’t let him. Should pull back.
But my common sense has vanished, taking my sense of self-preservation with it.
He moves lower until he cups my breast.
The contact is shocking.
His skin burns mine, and his calluses rasp lightly over my sensitive flesh.
My nipple tightens, peaking hard under the pad of his thumb. He circles it slowly, then rolls it between thumb and forefinger. Then he exerts a little more pressure, making me gasp.
He captures the sound with another deep kiss.
Pleasure arrows straight through me, sharp and insistent, and I feel the first slick rush of arousal.
Frustratingly the gown’s skirt is so fitted that I can’t press my thighs together for relief. The restriction seems to heighten the ache.
Moretti breaks the kiss just enough to let me breathe, but his mouth stays close. “You’re mine forever, Valentina.”
The heat of his breath mingles with mine.
Deliberately, studying my every reaction, he flicks my nipple again. Then he pinches, and the sting blooms into liquid heat that makes my knees tremble.
I clutch his shirt more tightly, and my thoughts fracture into microfragments. This is wrong. He forced this.
But God, he knows exactly how to touch me.
Against my wishes, my body arches into him, silently begging for more. The mirrors show it all, though: my flushed cheeks, my parted lips swollen from his kiss, the way my breasts strain against the white silk as he teases.
He kisses me again, this time even harder.
My desperation rises like a tide when he plunges deep, stroking, sucking, mimicking the rhythm I suddenly crave lower.
His erection presses against me, thick and unyielding. The heat of him sears through the fabric, and the knowledge that he’s this hard for me makes me want to grind myself against him.
My clit throbs in time with every tug on my nipple.
Confounded man doesn’t stop.
I whimper into his mouth, the sound soft and broken, and he answers by deepening the kiss and working my nipple with even more relentless precision—circling, pinching, rolling until the pleasure borders on pain.
Helplessly I rock my hips forward as much as the tight skirt allows, seeking friction against the hard ridge of him.
But the movement drags the beading across my skin, adding tiny sparks of sensation that scatter through me like embers.
I whimper again, louder this time, raw with the need I can no longer hide. My knees threaten to buckle, and I let my weight sag against his chest as the world tilts.
He supports me effortlessly, one arm banding around my waist, holding me upright while his mouth continues its assault and his hand keeps tormenting my breast.
Every thought narrows to the feel of him—the scrape of his stubble against my chin, the demanding slide of his tongue.
I hate how perfectly he reads me, how the dress he chose amplifies every response, how this moment strips away the control I’ve clung to since childhood, when I found out who my father is and what that meant about me.
Even more, I hate that he can make me crave his touch.
My whimpers are continuous, and just when I think I might shatter from the building pressure alone, he eases his hand from the bodice.
Cool air rushes over my heated skin like a shock, and he steps back.
The sudden loss of his mouth, his touch, leaves me swaying, my breath ragged, my lips tingling, my nipple still throbbing and yet hungry for more.
“Oh yes, my future bride. Fucking you will be worth every moment I force myself to wait.”
Fucking me?
Fucking me?
Is that all that matters to him?
His display of masculine prowess had nothing to do with desiring me. All he wanted was to make me desperate and prove his dominance over me.
Bringing my chin up, I straighten the bodice of the gown. Then I meet his contemptible eyes in the mirror.
I’m now well aware of his dirty tactics.
And as far as I’m concerned, Dante Moretti can fuck all the way off.