27. Dominic
27
DOMINIC
It’s important that her wound heals. If nothing else, I know about aftercare when it comes to this type of thing. I bet this bandage isn’t as good as it needs to be, what with her shenanigans escaping our clinic, running around giving me hell, and then taking a bath.
She’s giving me hell, all right. But I’m playing her, too, so all’s fair in love and war.
“Scoot all the way up,” I say, wanting to have her lying flat, so she can’t kick me in the nuts without me seeing it coming. This one…she’s not to be trusted.
When she’s rested her head on a pillow, eyes wide, hands nervously twitching by her sides as if things are about to get really inappropriate, I take a deep breath.
I’m really only interested in making sure her wound is properly sealed.
I don’t want to peel the clothes I just put on her right off again.
I don’t want to touch her with such gentle care, she’ll forget everything Franco’s ever done to her. Wipe this slate clean with my own hands, and replace those memories with quiet caresses that would ripple through her, arousing her like she’s never been aroused before.
I don’t want to mix my antidote into the poison she still carries within her.
With trained stoicism, I ignore the woman in front of me and quietly lift the T-shirt away and lower the pajama shorts two inches, baring her beautiful, creamy skin. I drag the shorts another inch lower because what I really want is another look at everything else going on her skin below her belly button.
First comes Randazzo’s tattoo which can still pass for body art if you don’t know what it means. And then, the real ugly scars that knot me up with such anger, my fingers start to tremble.
“What do these mean, sweetheart?” I ask, testing the scars by running a finger beside them.
They aren’t very long, and they were done in different batches, all at various stages of healing. And then, there’re the cigarette burns. Four in a line. I’d guess they’re maybe two weeks to three weeks old. Someone killed these cigarettes on her, giving her second degree burns that weren’t treated properly. I close my eyes, trying to contain the anger that’s got nowhere to go.
“Franco was counting the days he was holding me. Those are the tally marks. The last time I saw him before we flew here, he came with a friend. He didn’t have time so they just used their cigarettes to number the days until his return…he was planning to kill me, but he never came, and then things turned around, and I ended up here.”
I drag in a haggard breath. I’m a monster for letting her relive all of this. I don’t need to ask why he wanted to kill her. People are killed for way less than ten thousand euros.
“Who was the friend?”
I doubt she would know or even tell me, but to give her time to open up, I inspect the bandage, and it’s still sealed and watertight. Good for another night. I’ll get Dr. Wong to come check in on her in the morning.
She reaches for my hand where I’m still touching her, my fingertips grazing the sensual feminine hollow made by her hip and stomach, my hand burning with the need to slide over the hillock of her hip, down to the beautiful curve of her side, to her breast. Her nipples have hardened in tempting little peaks against the T-shirt, and there are so many things I want to do with them right now. Inappropriate things. Things she isn’t ready for.
As she takes my hand and lifts it away from her, it’s a clear non-verbal no. But she doesn’t let go of my hand as I expect her to. My stubborn pinkie pierces into her palm, stiff, and she adjusts her hold, then squeezes my hand as if for courage.
“It was Vincenzo Trapani, Gigi’s brother.”
She knows about Vincenzo. This woman is no coincidence.
“What did Vincenzo Trapani want?” It’s only our tight family circle who knows where Vincenzo is at the moment, and it’s going to stay this way.
“Franco…offered me to him, but—” She breaks off and lets go of my hand, then struggles to sit up and crosses her legs.
Fuck. I almost hiss in a breath. Those sleeping shorts’ legs are so wide, she almost flashed me. I look away as she adjusts her seat and drag my teeth over my bottom lip so hard, it diverts my mind from her pussy.
“Vincenzo didn’t want me. So Franco planned to eliminate me once he had Gigi locked in.”
“And then, that went pear-shaped.”
She shrugs with a small smile. “Never underestimate a Mafia princess.”
I smirk. And something tells me this one is royalty in disguise. I bet she’ll get on with Gigi like a house on fire given half the chance. “By saving Gigi, we indirectly saved you once from a certain fate. We’ll do so again.”
I’ll do so forever, and it hits me that I’ve adopted her into this family already as if she’s belonged to us all these years.
Sister. Family. Relation. Whatever. Bottom line: off-limits.
“Come along, let’s get you to your room.”
I step away from the bed so she can make her way, but she doesn’t move.
“Ariana.”
She closes her eyes, and as a lone tear slips down her cheek, it shreds me like one fast hack of an axe.
“I really don’t want to be alone. Can I stay here? With you?”
Fuckfuckfuck . NO?
Didn’t she see my fucking erection earlier? Doesn’t she know what it takes to touch her and still keep the beast in check? It’s been the perfect torment, sweet and addictive. I need my fix. My antidote. After a day like today, and she’s right here and I can help her, show her my way?—
“The bed is really big.”
“Yeah…but you’re not a good girl. I can’t sleep next to you,” I say, grabbing for the obvious straw. “You’ll sit on my face—with a pillow in between—” Obviously “—and suffocate me. Sweetheart, you were ready to shoot me an hour ago.”
I should have her under twenty-four-hour watch like I had, mind you, but after she whacked Marco over the head with a fire extinguisher, I’d rather spare my staff. And now, with what she told me about Franco, I don’t want to leave her with another man…someone who could make her feel unsafe. She’s asking me if she could stay, because despite everything, she feels safe with me. It makes me glow, just a bit. If she knew the real me, she wouldn’t feel safe with me at all.
Ah. She does know me. She knows exactly what I did this afternoon. But does she trust me? I’m just a fucking man, like the rest of them.
“I don’t have the energy,” she says and slumps back against the headboard, drawing up her knees. “Please.”
She asked not to be tied up, but there is no way this woman sleeps in my bed without being tied to something.
“Can I trust you to stay put for a minute?”
A weighted silence drags the moment down.
“Yes.”
“Then get under the covers.” I watch as she does so, then turn my back on her and head to the bathroom where I grab my toothbrush and get busy at speed. While brushing, I look out of the bathroom door, only to see her lying in bed, on her side, exactly as I left her.
I finish up my night-time routine, dim the lights, then head to the closet. Her eyes are on me, watching my every move. I give her my back as I strip. Let her watch. Let her plot. Let her pounce on me from behind and try to strangle me. I’d love to wrestle her to the bed and pin her down with a few little threats and some discipline that comes with this type of behavior. Physically, she’s no match for me, but with what she’s gone through?—
Overly conscious of my experiences displayed on my skin, I turn my good side to her as I drop my shirt. I hasten to put on a T-shirt and strip to my boxers. It’s ample coverage. I dip into the drawer with my silk ties I wear to business meetings. I have six here as I have only made a half-assed move of my closet at home. That’s plenty.
Ariana Morelli doesn’t want to be tied up to something—I bet Franco tied her up while he had her prisoner, maybe even while he violated her twelve years ago to keep her immobile—but I have other plans.
The headboard isn’t made for constraints, but we don’t need those. There’re plenty of knots for a situation like this, and I know them all. I switch off the lights but turn on the one on my nightstand. As I kneel onto the bed with my bundle of ties, her eyes widen, and she licks her lips.
“Nothing to hurt you, sweetheart,” I murmur. “Just something to keep you contained. You sleep on that side?”
She nods, and when I reach for her arm, she doesn’t resist. I caress her inner wrist’s delicate skin out of habit. I love every part of a woman, but there are a few places I always give special care to. The most vulnerable places. Those little nooks and dips that whisper back to me when I lick or nip at them, when I slide my tongue along the length of her pulse points, or drag my open lips and close them in tender kisses in her most erotic and hidden places.
Her breathing is strained as I slip one silk tie around her wrist, the movement measured and slow, and it’s killing me how I can’t do more for her. She’s opened up to me, and she isn’t the first woman to do so. I’ve served women with the sole purpose of reconnecting them with their own sensuality, to overcome their trauma and take charge of their sexuality again. What I’m doing here is nothing new for me, but from her subtle reactions, it is all new for her.
I know the patterns. Women either slide into complete promiscuity, trying to paint so many layers over the original abuse until they can’t find it amongst the rest, or they never let a man touch them again. Every signal her body sends me is like a dot on a line plotting to the latter.
Fuck, sweetheart. Twelve years.
And here I am, wanting to make up for all of them.