Chapter 3
Imust still be in a dream-like state, because Royal guides me from the SUV into the house without me stopping to argue, freak out, or even worry all that much.
I’m too in awe of the place, which looks more like a hotel for billionaires than a home—much less a young man like Royal’s home.
How much do Dolce and Gabbana models make?
To my relief, the first place we enter is the kitchen. It’s huge and warm with rich Turkish rugs on the wooden floors. Very fancy. With two ovens, it’s bigger than the working space of Mr. Rossi’s bakery. The marble-topped island is bigger than my bed.
“This is beautiful,” I say.
“I thought you'd like it.” Royal’s lounging in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He’s still in his long-sleeved white shirt, which has dried just fine despite getting snowed on. His dimple is creased, as if he’s been smiling from watching me gape at his kitchen.
I shrug out of his coat, fold it, and set it on the island. Without the warmth and scent of the wool, I feel exposed. Even more unsure of what to do.
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” I lie, tangling my fingers together. “I’m wondering what I’m doing here.”
“I told you, I want you safe.”
The question hovers on my tongue for a moment before I find my bravery and blurt, “How do I know I’m safe with you?”
“Do you believe in fate?” he asks.
I stare at my fingers. I kinda do, but I don’t want to admit it. “No.”
“Right. You will.” He leaves the door frame and walks further into the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure.”
“An espresso, perhaps?” Now I know he is amused by me.
I roll my eyes at him and he chuckles outright. He opens a cabinet, revealing a space-age-looking espresso machine built right into the wall, like a safe.
“Un latte, then. I will steam the milk.” He lets his finger dance over the buttons, turning the machine on and programming it with practiced ease. “Trust me.”
Trust me. For some reason, I do. Not only with coffee drinks.
The machine does its work, and Royal sets the tiny cup and saucer on the island next to me. But he must see my uncertainty because he comes close, crowding into my space. A Royal invasion, but I don’t hate it. I’m too busy drinking in his beauty and his scent.
He puts a finger to my lips. For a moment, he just rubs my bottom lip as if fascinated by its smoothness. I feel his touch all the way down to between my legs.
“Would you feel better if I let you call Mr. Rossi?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
He drops his hand. Without moving out of my space, he pulls out his phone and dials a number. He holds it to my ear, holding my gaze as we both listen to it ring.
“Hello?”
Relief trickles down my spine as I recognize my boss’s voice. “Mr. Rossi? It’s Leah—are you all right?”
“Ah, Leah. Yes. I’m fine. The doctor is here. He stitched me up. Now he’s looking at Cedella.”
“The doctor came there?” I repeat, because I’ve never heard of a doctor doing house calls.
“Yes. He check me first. The men are downstairs, cleaning. It is a miracle.”
“Men? What men?”
But Mr. Rossi doesn’t seem to hear. “Thank you, Leah,” he’s gushing, “for delivering the money.”
Right, the money. Royal’s men must have delivered it. Thank you, I mouth to Royal. He lifts his chin.
“I must go now,” Mr. Rossi says in a distracted rush. “Everything will be fine. Big storm today. We will close the shop until it passes. Ciao!”
“Ciao,” I say, but he’s already hung up.
“The doctor came to his house,” I say, because I can’t quite believe it.
“I told you I'd take care of it.”
“What is going on?” My call with Mr. Rossi didn’t explain anything.
“Stefanos made a move, but I was ready. What I didn’t anticipate was him targeting the bakery. I had men watching before today, but I had called them away. I’m sorry, principessa. I failed you.”
Men watching? “Stefanos made a move?” I repeat.
“He did. But you don’t need to worry about him anymore. He won’t bother you or anyone ever again.”
I stare into Royal’s coffee-black eyes. All the pieces are falling into place, and I know more than I want to. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I won’t keep anything from you, Leah. Not if you ask me. Not if you really want to know.”
I squint at him. It’s like he’s answering a question, but one I haven’t yet thought to ask.
“This is a lot.” I raise a hand between us, but he captures it. His fingers are long and so warm.
“I know, Leah. But you can trust me.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my palm.
A simple gesture, but one of the most intimate things anyone’s ever done to me.
The softness of his lips, the reverence in his eyes…
something is happening here. I feel it again in my stomach, the seismic shift of fate.
I swallow. “What happens now?”
“Now, you are safe. We will wait out the storm.”
Whether he means the snow storm outside, or some metaphorical mafia war, I don’t know.
I’m in over my head. This is nuts, but I don’t want to step away from Royal. Ever.
Do you believe in fate?
He touches my face with just the tips of his fingers, and brushes his lips over mine again. A light, feathery kiss. When he draws back, his eyes are twin pools of darkness.
“Bella,” he breathes, and kisses me again. “You taste so sweet.”
His touch turns my thoughts upside down.
His lips are like a shot of Strega, warming me.
I sway on my feet, gasping. Why would he kiss me?
What would he see in me? I try to turn my head, and his fingers tighten on my chin.
“No, open for me.” He tilts my head and I let him guide me into a deeper kiss.
My thoughts tumble out of my mind. Who cares why someone as beautiful as this man is kissing little ‘ol me? I’m going to enjoy the moment before he changes his mind.
I surge to my tiptoes and kiss him back.
My breasts smash against his chest. I’m clumsy but eager, and Royal seems to enjoy it.
He steadies me with hands on my hips, then angles his head, guiding the kiss so our mouths slant across each other, allowing his tongue to probe deeper.
The move penetrates the very core of me.
When the kiss ends, I’m shaking, and wet. Royal’s hair is disheveled—I may have dug my fingers into it in the throes of the kiss, but he’s otherwise as put together as usual, while I’m shaky and flushed.
“Wow.” My voice is slurred; I sound drunk.
He chuckles and swipes a thumb over my lips. “I want to taste you, princess,” he says. “Will you allow me to do that?”
“Yes,” I say slowly.
He scoops me up—I love how easily he picks me up—and marches through a vast dining room, into a dark inner room lined with bookshelves and wood paneling, where he sets me down on an overstuffed armchair. Seating himself on the footstool, he draws off my ugly boots.
“Your feet are cold,” he tuts. His big hands swallow my foot, massaging, warming. My thoughts roll through a slow lazy loop. I can’t believe I’m in a mansion with the most beautiful man I’ve ever met and he’s giving me a foot massage. Is this a dream?
He leans in to kiss me again and I meet his lips eagerly. His tongue sweeps inside my mouth and my pussy clenches. He’s taking more than just a taste.
When he breaks the kiss, we’re both panting. “You smell like gingerbread,” he murmurs. His knuckles brush the swell of my breasts and my back arches, my body begging for more.
“Mia zia made them,” he continues, softly swirling his knuckles around my nipple.
Even through the fabric of my sweater, the light touch makes me ache.
“The cookies of my youth. She kept tubs of them on her stairs, and before guests left, she'd put together a tin to take with them. Biscotti, caramelle…”
Visions of cookies dance in my head as Royal pushes up my sweater along with my thin cameo shirt. My pink bralette barely holds back my breasts.
“Yes,” he breathes. “I need a taste.”
I shiver, and he pauses. “Are you cold?”
I shake my head. I'm not cold. Heat crackles under my skin.
He reaches for a remote beside me and points it at the fireplace in the corner. A click of the button, and the gas-fed flames dance over the white stones.
Royal returns to me, pulling off my top layers to bare my bralette.
His hands skim along the sides of my breasts.
His thumb circles my nipple and tugs the lace edge of my bralette down.
He bends his dark head and his hot breath warms my areola.
My head falls back. His tongue flicks my nipple, alternating with his finger too.
There's a slight pinch as he sets his teeth around my nipple, and tugs.
My whole body is rising and falling, riding the waves of sensation.
His hands find my hips and peel down my black leggings. The move pulls me down with it. My back’s on the seat chair, my hair spread out in a dark halo around my face. When I look down, Royal is kneeling between my legs. His long, elegant fingers tug but my leggings are stuck.
“Do you like these?” he asks.
I shake my head, trying to lift my bottom to help him. Instead of tugging again, he rips the seam. The fabric tears under his hands and he tosses the shreds away. My yoga pants were cheap, but damn. It’s the first time I’ve seen Royal anything but perfectly controlled.
Now my pussy is within his reach, protected only by a pair of panties with pink cupcakes on them. He studies it like I’m an espresso machine he’s about to take apart and put back together. Like he’s mapping out the ways to make me purr.
He extends a long finger and traces up and down the seam of my pussy. His touch through my panties makes my toes scrunch.
He hooks his fingers in the sides of my panties. A jerk, and he’s ripped them, too.
“I’ll buy you more,” he promises.
I’m too turned on to protest. I’ve never had a man look at me like this, staring at my pussy with the intensity of a starving man offered a perfect peach.
He swipes his thumb up and down, collecting juices. Tilting his head in that familiar way of his, he sucks my essence off his thumb. Tremors ripple through my tummy.
My head falls back. A flush is already spreading over my chest. I’m pretty sure I just had a mini orgasm. “What are we doing?” I ask the ceiling.
“I want to taste you. And, cara mia, I always get my way.” He lowers his dark head between my legs.
His fingers stroke the sensitive skin above my knee.
He turns his head to kiss the faint, shiny stretch marks I’ve had on my inner thighs since puberty, when I gained my curves.
He seems fascinated by every one. His tongue glides up and down my seam, feeling incredible.
Wet and wonderful, it’s so much better than my fumbling fingers.
It circles my clit and goes back to lapping at my folds.
All too soon, my body clenches in on itself.
My knees automatically close, but Royal holds them open so he can keep licking—long, insistent swipes that intensify the tremors until they threaten to rip me apart.
My thighs strain under his grip. He’s holding me down, and it whips my climax to greater heights. My head thrashes back and forth.
Finally, the white hot edge of my orgasm passes. I relax, letting the aftershocks flow through me.
After a few final swipes of his tongue, Royal raises his head. His face is as darkly beautiful as ever. His lips are wet. He licks them.
“I’ve never done that,” I say. It’s true. My ex-boyfriend never did that for me. I never orgasmed with him.
Royal sets his palm on my pussy and grinds down gently. His touch grounds me, even as it sparks new arousal that threatens to send me soaring higher.
“This is the beginning,” he says.