Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty Three
Teresa
I'm going to go to hell.
I'm absolutely certain of it. There is no other possible destination for a woman who is willingly, eagerly, holding the hand of her kidnapper and letting him lead her across the sand, bare-ass naked at night.
The rational, logical part of my brain—the part that has spent years cultivating a reputation for professionalism and decorum—is screaming at me. Telling me that this is madness. That this is the single most irresponsible, reckless thing I have ever done.
But the other part of my brain, the part that has been suppressed and ignored for far too long, is buzzing with a heady, intoxicating cocktail of excitement and anticipation.
This is freedom.
This is what it feels like to let go of the wheel and see where the road takes you.
Vito's hand is warm and strong, his fingers laced through mine. He's not dragging me. He's leading me. And I'm following. Willingly. Eagerly.
I have no idea what he has in mind, but I know it's going to be something I've never done before. Something I would never do on my own.
He leads me to the deck, then through the glass door. He doesn't turn on the lights. He moves with a confident, easy grace in the darkness, a predator in his natural habitat.
He lets go of my hand and opens the refrigerator, the bright light a sudden, stark intrusion in the darkness. He pulls out a bottle of champagne, the expensive kind with the gold foil label, and two crystal flutes that he must have had chilling.
He closes the door, and we're plunged back into darkness, the only light the faint, ethereal glow of the moon filtering through the windows.
He leads me to the hallway that I know leads toward more bedrooms. His, specifically.
He pauses outside one of the doors, then turns to me, a look of silent inquiry in his eyes. He's asking for permission. Asking me if I'm ready to cross this line with him.
He doesn't have to ask.
I give him a single, decisive nod.
A slow smile spreads across his face, and he pushes open the door.
The room is massive, somehow masculine but matching the theme of the tropical island we're on. What I can make out in the fading light are that the walls are painted a deep, warm gray, and the furniture is made of dark, exotic wood.
The far wall is made entirely of glass, offering a breathtaking view of the moonlit ocean.
But it's not the view that captures my attention.
It's the enormous bed that dominates the room.
Somehow masculine and fitting of the beautiful beach house at the same time, it's covered in light gray linens that look so soft and inviting I want to melt into them.
A forest green duvet is folded neatly at the foot of the bed.
My stomach does a nervous little flip-flop. It's the kind of bed where secrets are made and fantasies are fulfilled.
The kind of bed where good girls go to get thoroughly and completely corrupted by really, really bad boys.
My heart starts to pound wildly against my ribs.
The cork pops, and I have to bite back a small, startled cry. Vito just chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends a shiver down my spine.
He pours the champagne, the fizzy, golden liquid bubbling up in the flutes.
Vito holds one out to me and meets my eyes. "Having second thoughts?" he asks silkily. "Your heart is beating so fast I can practically hear it from here."
I am. My mind is screaming at me that this is a terrible idea. That I should run. That I shouldn't be here, naked and vulnerable, in a mafia prince's bedroom.
His idea of bad and mine are two very different things.
But my body is singing a different tune. A primal, desperate melody of want and need.
"No second thoughts," I say, and take the glass from him, our fingers brushing, the contact sending a jolt of electricity through me.
"Good," he murmurs, raising his glass to mine. "To letting go."
My heart hammers. Somehow the words are exactly right.
I clink my glass against his. "To letting go," I repeat, my voice a little shaky.
I take a sip, the bubbles tickling my nose and the crisp, cool liquid is a welcome relief from the heat that's building inside me. It's the best champagne I've ever tasted. Or maybe it's just the company.
I watch him over the rim of my glass. He's watching me too, his gaze intense and unwavering. He looks like a predator stalking its prey. And I, I realize with a jolt of shocking clarity, am the prey.
He tilts his head back and drains his glass in one go, the muscles in his throat working. Then he sets it down on the dresser and turns to me, his eyes dark and dangerous. "Your turn."
My hands tremble slightly as I raise the glass to my lips. I drain it, the liquid burning a path down my throat.
He takes the empty glass from my hand and sets it next to his.
He doesn't touch me. Not at first. He just stands there, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, so close I can smell his scent, a heady mix of sand and sea and something uniquely him.
My breath hitches, and my body trembles with anticipation.
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my cheek. His touch is gentle, almost reverent. Very unlike before, when his fist had an unbreakable grip on my hair.
Then he traces the line of my jaw, his thumb stroking my skin. My eyes flutter closed, and a soft sigh escapes my lips.
"I've been thinking about what you said," he says, his voice a low, husky rumble.
"What?" I whisper, my mind a blank slate, unable to form a coherent thought.
"About being bad," he says. "About wanting to be bad." He pauses, and I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. "You don't have to be bad with me, Teresa."
My eyes fly open, and I stare at him, my heart pounding against my ribs. "What?"
"You can just be," he says simply. "You can be whatever you want to be. Sad. Angry. Happy. Horny." He gives me a slow, wolfish grin. "You can be all of those things at once. You don't have to put on a show for me. You don't have to be the good doctor or the bad girl. You can just be... you."
His words are a revelation. A bombshell detonating in the carefully constructed world of my psyche.
All my life, I've been defined by my roles.
The quiet daughter of parents who never paid much attention to her.
The dedicated student. The brilliant doctor.
I've never once considered just being me. I'm not even sure who that is.
Tears well in my eyes again, hot and stinging. But I don't let them fall. This isn't the time for that.
"I want this," I whisper. Then I repeat, more sure of myself, "I want this. I want to do... whatever this is."
His grin is slow and devious. A look that makes me want to do something that I will need to go to confession for. Though I'm sure whatever I say could make a priest blush.
"Good," he says, and finally, finally, his hands are on me, his fingers wrapping around my waist and pulling me flush against him. "Because I have plans for you."
His words are a dark, delicious promise, and my body responds with a hard jolt of lust.
"What kind of plans?" I ask, my voice a breathy, needy whisper.
His hands slide down my back, cupping my ass, pulling me even closer until I can feel the hard, hot length of him pressed against my stomach.
"One step at a time," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear.
A shiver runs down my spine, and my pussy clenches, a desperate, hungry ache that makes my knees weak.
"What's the first step?" I murmur, knees weakening, my body melting against his.
"First..." He nibbles on my earlobe, and I have to bite back a moan. "We shower."
"A shower?" I ask, a little disappointed. I was expecting something a little more... exciting. A little more... bad.
But then he pulls back, and the look in his eyes makes my breath catch. There's nothing tame about the way he's looking at me. Nothing gentle.
"To start," he says, his voice dark and low. He pulls back slightly, his gaze drifting over my body. "You're a bit messy.”
I feel his eyes linger on my thighs and become acutely aware of the drying wetness all over them. A hot blush spreads across my cheeks. He's right. I am a mess. A sticky, sandy mess. Plus, I can feel the sea salt drying on my skin, making it tight.
He takes my hand again and leads me toward a door on the other side of the room. He pushes the door open to reveal a massive, all-glass bathroom. A shower big enough for a party dominates one wall, with multiple showerheads and a built-in bench.
"Always better to start with a clean slate," he says. "Especially if you plan on getting dirty again. Don't you think, Doctor?"
Oh.
A wave of heat washes over me, and my pussy clenches in anticipation. This is so much better than a simple shower. So much more... decadent.
He pulls me into the bathroom, then turns to face me.
His hands move to my shoulders, and he slowly turns me around to face the vanity.
I see myself in the mirror, and my cheeks flush with a fresh wave of embarrassment.
My hair is a tangled mess, my lips are swollen and bruised, my skin is still flushed with sex and sun.
I look thoroughly, completely, and utterly fucked, even though we've barely gotten started.
"I am a mess," I say, mildly horrified, no matter how the mess happened. But he doesn't seem to mind.
"No," he says, his gaze meeting mine in the mirror. "You're perfect."
His hands slide down my arms, then back up, tracing the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips. He's not touching me with any real purpose, just exploring, mapping my body as if he's committing it to memory.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "All flushed and pink." =
My breath hitches, and a shiver runs down my spine.
He nudges my feet apart with his, then slides his hand between my legs, his fingers dipping into my always-wet folds. He's not trying to arouse me, not really. It feels like more of an inspection.