Chapter Fourteen
Elsa
I lift my glass and take a slow sip, acutely aware of how his eyes track my mouth.
His line—I might not survive it—should make me laugh. It does, technically. A small, controlled sound that comes out exactly the way I want it to: on the surface. Light. Teasing. Delighted.
Inside, it hits like a bruise.
Because he looks wrecked. He looks hungry.
And that should satisfy me. That was the whole point.
I wanted him struck dumb. I wanted him to appreciate what he touched last night and what he thought he could use. I wanted him to feel the loss of control in his own body the way I felt it in mine.
He did.
I can see it in the tension at his jaw, the way he’s holding himself still too carefully, like he’s afraid his hands will betray him. I can see it in the way his gaze keeps dipping, keeps getting caught on the slit, the neckline, the parts of me I stopped letting people look at.
Delight flares hot and sharp in my chest.
And then the hurt follows, quieter and worse, curling under my ribs where I can’t claw it out.
Because none of this would matter if last night hadn’t mattered.
If he hadn’t made me feel like he wanted me—not the leverage attached to my title, not the advantage attached to my decisions, not the name he somehow knew before I ever gave it to him.
I smile anyway. I tilt my head slightly and let my eyes travel over him, slow enough that he notices. If he’s going to look, I’m going to look back. Calm. Appraising. Like I’m the one deciding whether he earns the right to be in my presence tonight.
“You’re staring,” I say, smooth as cream.
His mouth quirks like he knows it’s a trap and steps into it anyway. “I’m appreciating.”
“Mmm.” I set my glass down with care and run my finger carefully around the rim. His eyes follow. “Appreciation is free.”
He leans back a fraction, a controlled movement that doesn’t fool me. He’s trying to give himself room. He’s trying to breathe. “And you,” he says, voice a touch rough, “are very expensive tonight.”
There it is. The flirt. The praise.
The hook.
My pulse jumps like it still believes him.
I don’t let it show.
“I bought everything this afternoon,” I say, casually, as if it’s nothing at all. As if I didn’t do it with his face in my head and my anger in my bloodstream. “It seemed… appropriate.”
His gaze sharpens. “Appropriate for what?”
For hurting you.
For punishing you.
For proving you don’t get to touch me and walk away thinking you won.
I lift my shoulders in a small shrug and let the wrap slip off my shoulders completely and settle at my elbows, where it covers absolutely nothing. The shift in his focus is immediate, involuntary. His throat works once.
Good.
“Dinner,” I say, and widen my eyes in faux-innocence. “You did tell me to wear anything else. I did.”
His eyes hold mine like he’s trying to read what’s behind them. Like he knows something is different and can’t locate the fracture.
He smiles anyway. “You dressed for war, dolcezza.”
I let my mouth curve. “Did I?”
His gaze drops again, and this time I don’t pretend not to notice. I let him do it, even push my chest out a little. I let him suffer for it.
The server appears silently. I don’t look at him long enough to invite conversation. He hands us menus, retreats.
I pick up my wine and take another sip.
Antonio watches it like he wants to be the one slipping between my lips.
The thought makes me ache in a way I resent.
I swirl the glass. “So,” I say, bright and easy, “what are we doing tonight?”
He blinks like he expected anything but that. “We’re having dinner.”
“That’s the obvious answer.” I take another sip. “I mean the real one.”
His brows lift. “The real one.”
“Yes,” I say, patiently. “People don’t get private rooms and chilled wine and a silent server because they’re craving small talk.”
His smile spreads, and it’s beautiful. It’s the same smile that undid me last night. It’s still capable of making my stomach flip.
Which makes me want to ruin it.
“I can do small talk,” he says.
“I’m sure you can,” I agree, sweetly. “You can do almost anything.”
A beat of silence.
He studies me. “That sounded like a compliment.”
“It was,” I say, and let the word sit there like bait.
His eyes flick down to my lips again. He looks like he’s imagining the taste of the red gloss. He looks like he’s imagining smearing it, ruining it, taking it off with his mouth.
My body reacts on instinct, heat pooling between my legs.
I hate my body for being so stupid.
I keep my face composed and lean forward just slightly—enough that his attention drops, enough that he stops breathing for a second.
Instinctively, he leans in, and I know I have him fully wrapped around my finger if he’s mirroring me.
“Antonio,” I whisper seductively.
“Yeah?” he responds.
“Tell me about the rest of your day.” I sit back, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate care. The slit opens. I see his eyes drop, see the way he tries to stop himself and fails. His hand tightens once on the edge of the table.
Delight flashes again.
Then the hurt, because I remember his hands on me. His mouth. His voice in the dark. The way he made it feel like I was the only thing he could see.
And now I can’t stop wondering if he was seeing me at all—or if he was seeing a door he wanted to unlock.
“My day?” he asks, hoarsely.
I let my smile widen. “You said you could do small talk."
He laughs, but it’s short. Harsh.
He knows I’m pushing him.
I want him to push back.
I want him to show me the man underneath the expensive suit and the polished words, the one who knows my name, the one who left me feeling like I had been hollowed out.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he leans back, too, settling himself into the chair, a clear attempt to regain control, to shift the energy between us. “Fine,” he says, and his tone is a challenge now. “My day was… productive.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Productive.”
“Very.” He takes a sip of wine, and this time, he’s the one who makes it look deliberate, slow. A provocation. “Went home, had a shower." He gives me a wicked smile. "Would've been better if you were there."
The image hits me so fast and so clear, my brain actually stumbles. Him, in the shower. Water slicking down that muscled chest. Me, stepping in behind him, pressing myself to his back. My hands sliding over wet skin.
My stomach clenches.
My breath hitches.
I cover it with a smile, a slow, easy roll of my shoulders that feels stiff and false. “I'm sure you managed."
“I did not,” he says, and his gaze is heavy now, pinned on me, and it feels like he’s seeing past the dress and the makeup and the carefully constructed armor. He’s seeing the want. He’s seeing the ache. He’s seeing the lie. “I thought about you all day.”
I can feel my control slipping, the carefully constructed cracks in my composure widening. I’m the one who’s supposed to be in charge here. I’m the one who’s supposed to be dictating the terms, the one who’s supposed to be the one leaving him wanting, not the other way around.
I need to stop this.
I need to get control back.
I need to stop feeling like I'm the one about to fall apart.
I look at him, at the heat in his gaze, at the slight curve to his lips, at the way he’s looking at me like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
And I know, with a certainty that’s almost painful, that he’s going to win again.
I pick up my glass, my fingers tight around the stem. “That's a line,” I say, teasing. “I've heard better."
“Have you?” he asks, and he’s not smiling anymore. He’s just watching me, and it’s intense, and it’s unnerving, and it's doing things to me I don't want it to do.
“Many times.”
“Not from me,” he says.
I don't answer.
He leans forward again, just enough to make it a private conversation, a secret. The space between us feels charged, like the air before a storm. "You think this is a game, dolcezza?"
"I think you think it is," I shoot back, but my voice is breathy. I hate the sound of it.
“I don't play games,” he says, and his voice is low, serious. “I make moves.”
I’m silent.
He’s getting to me. He’s getting under my skin, and I don’t know how to stop him. I don’t know how to make him stop seeing me. I don’t know how to make him stop wanting me. I don’t know how to make him stop making me want him.
I’m losing.
I can feel it in the way my heart is hammering against my ribs, in the way my body is thrumming with a tension that’s been building since I walked in the room, in the way I can’t seem to look away from him.
He’s a predator. I know it. I saw it last night. I felt it. And I walked into his territory again, dressed like bait, and now I’m shocked that he’s closing in for the kill.
I look at him, at the dark intensity in his eyes, at the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room, in the world, and I’m terrified.
And I’m so, so turned on I can barely think straight.
I’m a fool.
I’m a stupid, reckless, foolish girl.
The betrayal hits me again, sharp and bitter. He knows who I am. He used me, slept with me, made me feel things for him.
All for an acquisition.
That fuels me, gives me the strength to pull it together. I lift my chin. “And what move are you making now?”
A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face.
“This,” he says.
Then he stands up.
My breath hitches. My entire body tenses, a bowstring drawn taut. I watch him, every nerve ending alight, waiting for what he’ll do.
He doesn't say a word.
He walks around the table. The server, materializing from the shadows, makes a move toward him, a polite inquiry on his lips. Antonio doesn't even look at him. He just holds up a single finger. The server freezes, then, with a barely perceptible nod, melts back into the woodwork.
It’s a display of power so subtle, so absolute, it’s more terrifying than a shout.
He reaches my chair.
The world narrows to the space between us.
I look up at him, my heart beating so hard I can feel it in my throat. I can’t look away. I’m trapped by the heat in his gaze, by the sheer magnetic pull of him.
He places a hand on the table next to me, caging me in. The other comes down on the back of my chair, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of my back.
I flinch. A tiny, involuntary shiver that I know he feels.
A slow, triumphant smile touches his lips.
I hate him for it. I hate him for seeing it. I hate him for making me feel it.
He leans down, bringing his face close to mine. I can feel the warmth of his breath, smell the clean scent of his cologne, the faint hint of wine on his lips.
“You wanted to know the real reason we’re here,” he murmurs, his voice a low, intimate caress that sends a shiver down my spine. “This is it.”
His eyes are locked on mine, and I can see the truth in them, raw and unvarnished. He’s not playing anymore. This is not a game.
This is the checkmate.
I want to run. I want to shove him away and bolt for the door. I want to put as much distance as possible between me and the raw, dangerous energy radiating off him.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
My body is a traitor, rooted to the spot, every cell screaming at me to stay.
His gaze drops to my mouth, to the slick, wet red gloss I know he’s been thinking about all night. “You wanted me to look,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “So I’m looking.”
He’s so close. I can feel the heat of him, the sheer presence of him, and my body is responding, a wave of heat washing over me, a tight, aching need building between my legs.
“You wanted me to want you,” he continues, his lips now so close to mine I can feel the vibration of his words. “And I do. God help me, I do.”
The admission hangs in the air between us, a raw, vulnerable confession that catches me off guard. For a second, I see something else in his eyes, something that looks an awful lot like desperation.
Then it’s gone, replaced by that same burning intensity.
His gaze lifts back to mine. “But you think this dress is a weapon,” he whispers. “You think it gives you power. You think it makes you safe.”
His knuckles trace a slow, deliberate path up my spine, a whisper of a touch that makes my back arch, a silent plea for more.
“It doesn’t,” he says, his voice dropping even lower. “It just makes it easier for me to get to what I want.”
His other hand moves from the table, coming to rest on my thigh, just above my knee, on the skin exposed by the slit.
My breath catches in my throat.
His touch is a brand. A claim.
And my body, my stupid, treacherous body, responds instantly, a jolt of desire so intense it makes me dizzy.
“You wanted to know what I’m doing,” he says, his thumb stroking a slow, maddening circle on my skin. “I’m showing you.”
His hand moves higher, a slow glide up my thigh, pushing the fabric of the dress aside, baring more of me to the cool air and to his burning gaze.
My brain is screaming at me to stop him.
He moves closer, but he doesn't kiss me. He leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. The sensation is so light, so delicate, it’s a shock.
“Tell me to stop, Elsa." He breathes my name like a prayer.
I can’t.
I can’t find the words. My throat is tight, my lungs burning, my body trembling with a confusing, chaotic mix of fear and desire.
I want him to stop.
I want him to never stop.
His hand slides higher, pushing the dress further up my thigh, until his fingers are tracing the line of my stocking top, brushing against the delicate strap of my garter.
“Tell me,” he whispers, and his breath is hot against my skin, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
He presses his mouth to my neck, a soft, open-mouthed kiss that makes my head fall back, a silent surrender.
His fingers hook into the strap of my garter. A small, deliberate tug. An undeniable promise.
My hips lift off the chair, a tiny, involuntary movement, a desperate, pleading arch of my body.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a dark, predatory sound that makes my whole body clench.
That brings my head back around to the reason I'm here.
No, damn it. No, I'm not letting him win.