Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The rest of the gala passes in a blur of calculated smiles and strategic conversations. I play my part perfectly—the devoted new wife, charming and attentive. Damiano keeps his hand at my lower back, his thumb occasionally brushing against my bare skin, sending unwanted shivers down my spine.
We leave shortly after midnight, the silence in the car heavy between us.
I stare out the window at the passing city lights, grateful for the darkness that hides my expression.
Tonight was just theater—a performance for the benefit of others.
The kiss, his possessive display with Rossi, all of it designed to sell our story.
So why can't I stop thinking about it?
My lips still tingle from his kiss. My skin remembers exactly where his hands touched me. It's just physical, I remind myself. Bodies responding to stimuli. It means nothing.
I repeat this like a mantra as Damiano navigates through Manhattan's late-night traffic. This is an act. I'm here for revenge. He killed my father. There is nothing between us but mutual manipulation.
The mansion comes into view, grand and imposing against the night sky. I've been living here for weeks, but it still doesn't feel like home. Perhaps no place ever will again.
Daniel opens my car door, and I step out without waiting for Damiano. The air feels cool against my heated skin, a welcome relief. My heels click on the marble as I cross the foyer, my mind already focused on the solitude of my room.
Damiano's footsteps follow behind me, steady and unhurried. I can sense him watching me, waiting for something—a word, a look back, some acknowledgment of what happened tonight.
I won't give it to him.
At the base of the grand staircase, I pause, my hand on the railing. "Goodnight," I say, the word clipped and formal. I don't turn to face him, don't give him the satisfaction of seeing whatever might be written across my face.
Without waiting for his response, I climb the stairs, my emerald dress whispering against the steps. My shoulders remain straight, my pace measured—never letting him see how desperately I want to escape his presence.
Only when I close my bedroom door behind me do I allow myself to breathe.
I toss and turn for what feels like hours, my mind replaying the gala like a movie I can't shut off. Damiano's possessive grip. The heat of his kiss. The way his eyes darkened when Rossi approached me.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter, throwing back the covers.
Sleep isn't coming tonight. My throat feels parched, likely from the champagne at the gala. I slip out of bed, not bothering with a robe. It's past three in the morning—who would be awake to see me in my sleep shorts and tank top anyway?
The marble floor feels cool under my bare feet as I make my way downstairs. The mansion is different at night—shadowed and silent, the moonlight streaming through tall windows casting everything in silver and black.
I reach the kitchen and flip on the small light above the sink, not wanting to illuminate the entire space. The cold water feels heavenly against my throat, and I close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the simple pleasure.
"If you're determined to wander around my house dressed like that, I'll have to rip all your clothes out."
The deep voice behind me nearly makes me drop my glass.
I turn slowly to find Damiano leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He's still in his dress pants from the gala, but his jacket and tie are gone, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar revealing a glimpse of tanned skin and what looks like the edge of a tattoo.
His dark eyes travel from my face down my body, lingering on my bare legs. My sleep shorts suddenly feel much shorter than they did when I put them on.
Instead of covering myself or apologizing, I take another deliberate sip of water, letting a small smile play at my lips.
"Is that a promise or a threat?" I ask, setting my glass down and leaning back against the counter. The cool marble presses against my lower back. "Because if you're planning to destroy my entire wardrobe, I should probably go shopping again. Lucrezia would love that."
I can see him struggling with himself, fighting between irritation and something more primal.
"You think this is a game?" he asks, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step into the kitchen.
I shrug one shoulder, feeling reckless. "Maybe. You started it with that little display at the gala."
I watch the storm building in Damiano's eyes as he crosses the kitchen toward me. There's something dangerous in his gaze—something that should make me run, not stand my ground. But I'm tired of running.
"You have no idea what game we're playing," he growls.
Before I can respond, his hands grip the waistband of my shorts. The sound of tearing fabric fills the kitchen as he rips them clean off me. The sudden exposure of my bare legs to the cool air makes me gasp.
I should be outraged. I should slap him and storm away. Instead, heat pools low in my belly, and my heart hammers against my ribs.
"Is that all you can do?" I challenge, my voice steadier than I feel.
In one fluid motion, he scoops me up, one arm behind my knees and the other supporting my back. My tank top rides up as he lifts me against his chest.
Put me down!
The words form in my mind, but my mouth won't cooperate. I should be fighting, screaming, demanding he release me. This is Damiano Feretti—my father's killer, my enemy.
This is my chance to make him get closer to me. To trust me.
I'm doing this to avenge my father's death.
But as he carries me through the hallways of the mansion, my body betrays me. I can explain this. I haven't had sex in months. My body has needs.
He kicks open the door to his bedroom—a room I've never entered before—and I catch glimpses of dark furniture and massive windows before he tosses me onto his bed. The silk sheets feel cool against my heated skin.
My breathing comes fast and shallow as Damiano looms over me, his expression unreadable in the dim light. This is madness. This is wrong. I came here to destroy this man.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
When his mouth claims mine, all those thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm. And I hate myself for that.
His kiss is different this time. His tongue explores my mouth with devastating precision, and I hear myself moan against his lips.
"Damiano," I whisper, not sure if I'm asking him to stop or begging him to continue.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes burning with intensity. The moonlight streaming through his bedroom windows catches the silver at his temples, making him look otherworldly.
"Tell me to stop," he growls, his voice rough with desire. "Tell me now, or I won't be able to."
I remain silent, my body making the decision my mind refuses to.
I have to do this.
I nod.
A predatory smile curves his lips as he lowers his head again, this time to my neck. His teeth graze my sensitive skin, sending electricity down my spine. He works his way down my body with agonizing slowness, pushing up my tank top to expose my stomach.
His lips trace patterns across my skin, alternating between gentle kisses and possessive nips that make me arch beneath him. Each touch leaves a trail of fire that burns away my resistance.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmurs against my hipbone.
Damiano continues his journey downward, his hands gripping my thighs to spread them wider. He looks up at me from between my legs, his eyes locked with mine in a silent question. The vulnerability in that moment steals my breath—this dangerous man, asking permission.
His fingers hook into the sides of my underwear, but instead of pulling them down, he lowers his head. I gasp as I feel his teeth grasp the delicate fabric. With agonizing slowness, he drags my underwear down my thighs, never breaking eye contact.
The cool air hits my exposed center, making me shiver. Or maybe it's the look of pure hunger in Damiano's eyes as he tosses my underwear aside.
"Let me taste you," he says, his voice a dark promise.
Before I can respond, his mouth is on me. The first stroke of his tongue makes my back arch off the bed, a desperate sound escaping my throat. He licks me with single-minded focus, like a man starved, alternating between broad strokes and precise attention that makes my vision blur.
Damiano works me with his mouth like he's worshiping at an altar. His hands grip my thighs with bruising intensity, holding me in place as I squirm beneath his relentless attention. The contrast between his rough fingers and soft tongue creates a tension that builds inside me with every stroke.
"Oh God," I gasp, my fingers finding their way into his dark hair.
When he slides one finger inside me while his tongue continues its work, stars explode behind my eyes. My hips buck against his mouth, chasing the sensation as a second finger joins the first, stretching me in the most exquisite way.
"That's it," he murmurs against me.
His words vibrate through my core, and something inside me shatters. My release crashes over me in waves so intense I cry out, my body convulsing as Damiano continues licking me through every aftershock.
When I can finally open my eyes again, Damiano rises to his feet beside the bed. His eyes never leave mine as his fingers work the remaining buttons of his shirt. He shrugs it off, revealing a torso that makes my breath catch.
His olive skin is a canvas of tattoos and scars—stories written in ink and flesh. A massive Italian design covers most of his chest, with what looks like Roman numerals over his heart. The tattoos continue down his arms and disappear beneath his waistband.
My eyes trace the defined muscles of his abdomen, the V-shape disappearing into his pants. Despite just experiencing an earth-shattering orgasm, desire pools in me again at the sight.