Chapter 9
THEA
I’m in his study again.
I’m back on the desk, legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth hot against my throat. He’s moving inside me—slow, deep, and devastating. I’m so goddamn close, trembling on the edge, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Sei mia,” he growls against my skin. “Mine.”
“Yours,” I gasp. “I’m… Gabriel…”
His hand slides between us, finding exactly where I need him. And—
I wake up.
My eyes snap open to the pale gray light of early morning filtering in through the curtains. My heart is pounding. My skin is flushed. And my hand is down my panties.
I yank it away like I’ve been burned, my face flooding with heat, even though I’m alone. The dream clings to me, vivid, filthy, and real. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will away the hot ache between my thighs.
But it doesn’t work. I can still feel him, feel the grip of his hands on my hips, that perfect stretch of his cock, the way he shuddered as he drained his seed inside me.
I throw off the covers and head for a cold shower.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in my uniform, staring at myself in the mirror and trying to summon up some semblance of dignity.
I can’t help but let my mind wander to last night. I let it happen. I wanted it to happen. I can play innocent all I want, but I was the one who knocked on the door of the study knowing he was inside. Not only that, but he’d told me to go to bed, and I refused.
I shift where I stand, my pussy aching.
Did he mean all those words he said? About my body being perfect? About him loving every curve? Or did I sleep with a guy especially skilled in knowing what women like to hear?
I grumble, stomping my foot a little in frustration.
I should’ve thought it out, used my head.
But I didn’t, and now I’m here, ready to tidy up the house of a man who made me come three times in one night.
Now I have to pretend I’m just the maid, just another pawn in Gabriel Moretti’s immaculate, terrifying life.
I smooth down the front of my apron and head to the door. I’m halfway down the grand staircase when I hear voices, low and conversational. I pause, one hand on the banister, and peer over the edge.
Gabriel is standing in the foyer, impeccably dressed in another suit. As always, he looks like he just walked out of a magazine shoot.
He’s cool, composed, untouchable, nothing like the man who buried himself inside of me last night and growled words in Italian against my throat.
My breath catches when I see whom he’s speaking to.
The man is older. Fifties, maybe. Gray hair, thinning on top. Medium build. He’s unremarkable in every way, except for his eyes. They’re green. Cold, sharp, predatory.
I’ve seen those eyes before.
The thought comes from nowhere, but it’s visceral and certain, and it makes my stomach twist. I don’t know where. I don’t know when. But I know those eyes.
“I appreciate you making time,” his words are heavily accented in thick Russian. “Given the tension, I thought it prudent we speak face-to-face.”
“Of course,” Gabriel says smoothly. “Though I’m surprised you came alone, Kolya. No Sasha today?”
Kolya.
Kolya Sokolov.
I remember that name. It’s the guy who wanted to bid on me at the auction, the one whose assistant couldn’t get through to him. And, if I’m remembering correctly, the guy who ended up winning Sylvie.
And now he’s standing in Gabriel’s foyer, chatting with him like they’re old friends.
I should leave, turn around and go back upstairs before they see me. But I can’t move. It’s like I’m glued to my spot.
Kolya chuckles, the sound low and unpleasant. “Sasha is nursing his pride. You embarrassed him at the auction, friend. A million for a girl? He thought I was joking when I told him to match it.”
“But you didn’t match it fast enough.”
Kolya shrugs. “I suppose not. But you got your prize, I got mine.”
Sylvie. I want to run down there and get right in his face, demand to know where she is, if she’s okay.
But I know I have to stay hidden.
“Perhaps you should’ve graced the auction yourself if you were looking to spend that kind of money,” Gabriel responds.
“Perhaps.” Kolya’s gaze drifts, lazy, assessing. It lands on me.
I freeze.
Those green eyes lock onto mine, something flickering within them. Recognition? Curiosity?
Whatever it is, I don’t like him looking at me. Not at all.
Then he smiles. It’s a faint, knowing smile, a smile laced with amusement.
“And who is this?” he asks.
Gabriel turns and our eyes meet.
There’s nothing in his gaze. No heat. No recognition. No trace of the man who worshiped my body last night and made me say, “I’m yours” while he came inside me.
Just cold, flat indifference, as if he’s regarding one of the decorative vases that line the hallway.
“The help.”
Two words—dismissive and final.
Something cracks in my chest.
“She’s new,” he continues. “Still learning the ropes.” He turns back to me. “Make yourself useful elsewhere. My associate and I have business to discuss.”
I open my mouth, wanting to give him a piece of my mind right then and there, but instead, I force my lips into a hard line, then take a slow, deep breath.
“Of course, Mr. Moretti,” I say, my voice steady, even though my hands are shaking. “My apologies for the interruption.”
With that, I turn and walk back up the stairs, my spine rigid.
I refuse to look back.
But I feel Kolya’s eyes on me the whole way.
I make it to the second-floor hallway before I have to stop and press my palms against the wall, breathing hard.
The help.
He called me the help in front of the man who tried to buy me.
I tell myself it’s just strategy, that Gabriel couldn’t exactly introduce me as the woman he fucked on his desk last night. I tell myself that he’s protecting me, keeping me invisible, making sure Kolya doesn’t look too closely at me.
But it doesn’t feel like protection. It feels like rejection.
I find myself once again thinking about the way he looked at me in his study, the way he touched me, the way he said, “You’re mine now.”
But now, in the cold light of morning, it all feels different, sinister almost. His words don’t feel like a promise or a claim—they feel like him marking his property.
That’s what I am, isn’t it? He paid for me. He owns me. He can dismiss me with two words whenever he grows bored.
Amanda’s words return to me, not the ones about my body, but the ones about being Gabriel’s type and how I’m far from it.
I push off the wall and head for the linen closet, grabbing fresh sheets for the guest rooms, my hands still shaking.
I need to get out of here.
Last night was fun. But I can’t stay in a house where I’m invisible one moment and worshiped the next.
I won’t be his dirty little secret, and I sure as hell won’t be his possession.