Chapter 21
CHIARA
I hate him. I hate him, yet I want him, and I despise feeling this way. When I decided to go topless yesterday, I knew what I was doing. I knew his men would call him. That he’d come.
When he looked at me without my clothes on, it was through the eyes of a man who wanted what he couldn’t have, but wouldn’t allow anyone else to have it either.
There was jealousy. Possession. Just like I knew there would be.
I’m usually good at reading people, and Brian Smith—which I don’t believe for a second is his real name—is not hard to read.
He’s running on bottled-up pain, an intimate part of himself he won’t allow anyone to see. It’s obvious from the way he lives that he doesn’t let a soul get close enough to unearth the fortress he’s built around himself.
He’s strong.
Powerful.
But unclothe his armor, and I bet you’d find a scared little boy.
I don’t feel sorry for him, though. My father may have taken people he loved, but that doesn’t excuse him kidnapping me, nor denying the fucking orgasm he owes me. I’ll be paying him back for that. I just haven’t figured out how.
I thought seducing him would be easy. I thought finding a home in his bed would be simple. But he’s proven me wrong.
Every time I think I’ve won, he’s a step ahead. Now I’ll probably never get out of here.
He’s avoided me all day. I’m not even sure he came home last night.
Not that I give a shit. I’m all alone in this giant house with nothing to do and no one to speak to.
I could strike up another conversation with Miles, the giant statue of a man, but I have a feeling he’d rather not talk to me, so as to not upset his precious boss.
I wander around the house, finding spaces not occupied by Smith’s obedient foot soldiers. Walking down a wide hallway on the other end of the kitchen, I find locked door after door, wondering what could be inside each one.
And just as I’m about to give up and go to my room, I find a library all the way at the end to the right. My heart’s paralyzed with excitement as I stare through the glass door, finding a huge ceiling-to-floor bookshelf on each side, with a gray ladder next to the left.
In the middle lies a glossy black coffee table and four cushioned ivory armchairs. I step closer, wanting inside.
Would he care if I went in? Do I even care if he does? And what the hell is he doing with a library? Does he even read?
Fuck it.
I tiptoe another step, my hand on the door now, and I open it.
“Wow,” I mutter when I discover that it’s a two-story library, completely mesmerized.
The spiral staircase leads upstairs to shelf after shelf of more books than I’ve ever seen in a home.
I used to love books as a child, and that love hasn’t died. Reading is my passion. A way to decompress. Romance, thrillers, I don’t care. I read it all.
I gently glide the door back to a close and take tentative steps inside. Running nervous hands down the black spaghetti-strap jersey dress I have on, I walk over to the right, feathering my fingertips across the spine of the books there, wanting to consume every word.
I make it to the end, and that’s when I realize there’s another large area behind the bookshelf, one with an L-shaped ivory sofa and a bar full of liquor bottles behind it.
Books and booze? I think I’ve found my new room. I could use some strong alcohol in my life right about now. Other than red wine at home or a shot or two at work on occasion, I don’t overindulge. But with the state of my life at the moment, I should probably chug a bottle of vodka.
Practically running toward the black leather bar, I pick up a shot glass and the closest bottle, reading the label.
Bowmore Islay Scotch Whiskey
1957
Great. Sounds expensive enough. I don’t drink whiskey, but there’s a first time for everything. Unscrewing the sealed bottle, I pour a shot.
“Here’s to one hell of a fucked-up life, Chiara Bianchi. May it only get more fucked up, because why the hell not?” I raise my glass to an invisible shadow and flip the honey-hued liquor down my throat.
Hell, it burns like acid. All I want is more, so I pour another. The liquor pools in my stomach, warmth and an instant buzz overtakes my senses, and I do what I probably shouldn’t. I drink some more.
Three or four shots later, I’m a little woozy, but still managing to walk on my bare feet.
Sort of. Kind of.
I almost trip.
“Oops.” A giggle falls out of me as I grip the edge of the bar to steady myself.
“Having fun?”
I gasp, startled by a voice I’ve come to rather enjoy hearing.
DOMINIC
She ignores my question, still giving me her back. All that ebony hair spills down her back, hitting that curvy ass of hers, one that I want to spread open with my tongue.
She runs a hand through her hair, flinging more past her shoulder, tempting me further. Ever since I felt her bare pussy, heard her cries of pleasure, all I’ve wanted was more of that.
More of her.
I spent all of last night at one of the clubs with my brothers, even though they’re not my scene. We were all there for a business meeting with a new investor for the clubs. But once some of the women Enzo invited to our table started grinding on my lap, I had enough.
I was in no fucking mood for anyone else’s cunt. I wanted inside only one, and it’s right here in front of me. Only a short dress separating me and that warm slit.
My cock swells and jerks beneath my slacks, demanding to see every bit of what she’s hiding under those clothes. If she weren’t obviously drunk, I’d fuck her bare. I’d own her in those moments, fleeting as they would be. She’d still be mine, and she’d know it.
The past and the present are colliding into one, and I can’t stop it.
“Do you know how expensive that bottle is?” I ask. “How rare?”
A laugh oozes out of her as she turns around, her back against the bar. “It’s cute that you think I care.”
I grin, uncuffing my baby-blue button-down, rolling up the sleeves over my forearms until they hit my elbows.
A small, barely there whimper makes it out of her lips. I lean against the other side of the bookshelf watching her watching me, her glassy eyes taking in my arms, my chest, my face.
She licks her lips, rubbing her inner thighs against one another.
I follow the movement. Knowing she’s hungry for me has me wanting to devour every inch of her, body and soul.
I want everything.
When I’m alone with her—when my passion runs hotter than my despair—that’s when the hurt is almost forgotten, as if it’s not even there. And that’s when she’s the most dangerous.
“It took a lot of money to secure that bottle,” I add. “Only twelve of its kind.”
“Wow,” she whispers, tightening her brows with a twitch of her lips. “I’m entirely too impressed.”
“Really?” My voice grows low as my appetite gets ravenous.
“No.” She shakes her head. “Not even a little.”
She turns to the bar, giving me her ass, peeking from below the dress, the one I want to flip to her waist. Would she fight me?
Would she beg for my cock as I let my palm strike her flesh again and again, until she can’t take any more.
“Is Mr. Smith upset?”
She whirls back to me with pouty, fuckable lips, the bottle of my Bowmore in hand. The one I bought for almost two hundred thousand.
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” she continues. “I’m in a very sharing kind of mood. So how about I give you a little taste?”
I fold my arms over my chest, my feet crossed at the ankles as I shoot up a brow, quite intrigued at what drunk Chiara is capable of.
She slithers across the floor, edging closer to where I stand, the bottle rattling in her grip as she rocks on her feet.
The black dress that’s molded to her curves rides up to her upper thighs, making me want to rip it right off.
She takes another step and almost trips over her feet. Before she can fall and stab herself on the pieces of my whiskey bottle, I reach out a hand and wrap my arm around the small of her back, my fingers massaging her hip.
“My hero.” Her lips tip up right before the bottle makes it to her mouth, and she takes a swig.
And with one hand on my shoulder, she leans in, her eyes delving into mine, and she kisses me. The liquor from her mouth courses into mine, and I swallow it down right before I take her tongue and suck, milking every drop.
I fist her hair, grabbing the bottle from her hand and taking a mouthful, kissing her back, giving her what she gave me while placing the bottle on an end table beside me.
Feeling her lips after all this time—tasting her like I was always meant to—it’s better than any whiskey I’ve come to acquire. And though I try to fight the feeling of affection squeezing at my heart, grasping at my throat, I can’t. Chiara always had a way of lighting my heart on fire.
I groan as her moans vibrate over my lips, the liquor from her tongue coursing down my throat, her nails sailing down my chest to find me hard as a rock. My fingers tangle wildly through her waves, pulling hard as her palm squeezes around the head of my cock.
Our kiss turns savage, the moans and groans piercing through the walls as hard and fast as our hands pierce our very skin.
Consuming.
Devouring.
Aching for more.
Her other hand moves to the buckle of my belt as she unfastens it, her lips still moving over mine, her whimpers growing more intoxicating.
I yank her head back, my fingers winding through her hair, needing to see her eyes, needing to see what lies within them.
“You need to stop,” I warn. “You’re drunk.”
She eyes me defiantly, chin high in the air, as she continues to undo my pants, sliding the zipper down.
“What are you doing?” I hiss with a growl as her hand slips inside my boxers, sheathing me in her softness.
She gazes at me, hypnotizing me with her beauty.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Her husky voice is dipped in raw determination. “I’ve wanted to know what you feel like. Taste like.”
My jaw stiffens, my cock straining for what it shouldn’t want. She moans as her teeth entrap her lower lip, her face straining as she jerks me up and down, nice and slow.
“You want my cock, huh?”