Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Peep Show
Chiara
The onslaught of childhood memories as Raf tenderly brushes the hair from my face and whispers back the question I asked him the first day we met made it hard to keep up the sleeping beauty act.
Emotions clog my throat, and the sting behind my eyes threatens to betray me as his protectiveness wraps itself around me like a warm hug that feels like being back in the safety of my father’s strong arms as a little girl.
A reminder of all the times I would pretend to be asleep just so he would gather me up and carry me from the car to my bed, tucking me in with a whispered, “Ti amo, cara mia.”
It’s not that Raf reminds me of my dad per se, especially considering all the things I dream of this man doing to me with those big strong hands of his, but it’s the all-consuming feeling that I am safe.
Like in some twisted fairytale, even after all that has transpired tonight—the deep air of loathing as we watched Juliette walk away from him, the way he watched me flirt with Hudson, contempt in his narrowed eyes, our heated exchange on the dance floor—I still find this same sense of divine protection in this man, making me believe if he’s by my side, nothing can hurt me.
I counter the sucker punch of very real emotions rattling at my ribcage by nuzzling my body against the hard, strong planes of Raf’s chest and stroking my fingers over the thundering I can feel there.
I expect him to flinch and put space between us; instead, he seems to soften beneath me as my body melts against his.
It occurs to me that maybe, just like I’m putting on the performance of my life, his icy cold front like he can’t fucking stand me is an act to hide the gooey center he refuses to reveal.
Maybe we’re not so different at all.
If faking it ’til I break him is the only way I’ll get to experience this feeling of my small body slotted perfectly into his big strong one, then I’m going to practice all my acting skills and die on a hill for it.
There was so much feeling in those hushed words I almost gave up the gig, but I kept it together, and the agony of doing so was worth it.
When we reach his home, which I can’t exactly get a good look at, he carries me inside with all the gentleness of someone who cares.
With me still cradled against him, he ascends a set of stairs and stops a short way down the hallway.
He enters the room and stops to grab something out of the chest of drawers before he sets me on the bed, propping me against the cushions.
Bending over me, he runs his hands up the inside of my leg to feel for the zip so he can remove my boots.
He slowly and carefully pulls it down. I stifle the wanton gasp wanting to claw its way out.
His head is bowed, so I take my opportunity to open my eyes a crack, watching his muscular back jump as he assuredly and deftly works off each boot.
I snap them shut again just as he returns to standing and carefully pulls me off the cushions and holds me upright.
He quickly grabs something from the bed, which I come to realize is one of his T-shirts when he puts the neck of it in place to cover my breasts before he unzips my dress.
Tingles dance along my spine where his fingertips hover as they work my zipper down.
He lets the dress fall away and he quickly redresses me in his T-shirt.
I can sense he’s trying his hardest not to look at my naked chest. To be a respectful, perfect gentleman.
It takes all my willpower not to yell, “No, please do your worst! Disrespect me with that luscious mouth, play me with those long fingers, and steal my soul with what I’m sure is a beautiful dick.
” But for once, I stop my runaway mouth from getting me in trouble and remain “asleep,” letting him scoop me back up, pull down the covers, and put me to bed, though sadly, not his own.
Now alone, I remain still, listening to my breathing bouncing off the walls.
I sit up, pulling the collar of his T-shirt to my nose, inhaling.
It smells like fresh laundry and his cologne lingering in the fibers, musky, sweet, and spicy all at once.
Hard to put your finger on just one note, a bit like the man himself.
The sound of running water has me sitting up even taller, the soft, silky cotton sheets falling around my legs.
From the sliver of light coming from the hallway through the door he’s left ajar, I can see the room is a classic white scheme with black and crystal accents.
Luxurious but not loud. The shower continues to run.
I hold my breath like that will help me hear better.
I exhale with a shudder as my legs move of their own accord, and the next thing I know, I’m swinging them off the side of the bed and making for the door.
I peek my head out and look down the corridor towards the sound of tinkling water.
I know I should turn around and walk the short distance back to bed.
Instead, I step into the corridor where the shadows look like they’re twirling alongside me, daring me to follow them.
My head and my feet are on completely different pages it would appear, because despite what I know I should do, my feet move to their own beat.
I stop in front of a door that’s open just a crack, putting one eye to it so I can inspect what’s hidden behind.
I can tell it’s his by the clothes neatly hung over the side of a reading chair in the corner and his shoes in an orderly fashion below.
I push the door open enough to slip inside, tip-toeing further into the open space.
His room is uncluttered and spacious, boasting a minimalist classic aesthetic with accents of moss green.
The sound of water is more insistent now, rhythmic and hypnotic, the whoosh of it like a siren’s call that’s cast a spell on me.
I imagine it cascading down his immaculate body, kissing and caressing the dips and divots of the firm chest and abs I was pressed against only a short time ago, before running over his firm ass and muscular thighs.
Oh God. Maybe I really am still drunk. That’s got to be the reason this vivid dream now includes me stepping into the shower with him.
I shake my head, but I still let my feet do the walking, and wouldn’t you know it, they continue to take me further towards that bathroom.
A clatter from inside the ensuite stops me, and I pause my movements.
I made it as far as the foot of his bed, realizing from this vantage point I can see into the open door of his bathroom.
It’s shrouded in darkness except for the strip lighting around the large, round mirror on his wall.
He’s facing away from me, and my breath hitches when I see the definition of his back, my eyes following the lines of its contours like a maze I want to get lost in.
There’s not a mark on his bronzed skin, and I have the palpable urge to run my tongue over it, lap up the droplets of water and watch it erupt with goosebumps.
I want to run my fingernails down it, leaving my mark like a tattoo.
His body is incredible. The rippling lines of hard, sculpted muscles a testament to his discipline and consistency.
Yet when he thought I wasn’t watching, he gave me a glimpse of what’s underneath that tough shell.
A softer, protective side. But the version of him I can’t shake from my mind, the one that sets the tempo of the throb at the apex of my thighs, is possessive Raf who made himself known while I was flirting with Hudson.
The man who glared at me with the blazing heat of something that looked a lot like want and left the burn of his harsh, dirty words tingling on my skin.
Make no mistake—I saw in that moment who was boss, and now it’s all I want.
I love sex. Talking about it. Doing it. Thinking about it.
But the truth is, it’s been a long time since I’ve given into the craving of my desires.
There’s war inside me. The ache to feel the elation of a climax at battle with the way my skin crawls at the memory of how my selfish pursuit of pleasure sent my parents to an early grave.
But there’s no denying the thought of new beginnings.
Being the master of my destiny has renewed my thirst to be wanted.
To be seen as beautiful and desirable by someone else.
And while I sought to get that from the charming, blond F1 star with the puppy-dog eyes and dazzling smile, what I want most is to feel all those things from broody, hot-as-hell Raf Princi.
The grumpy man who tries his best not to give a fuck about me or bless me with an ounce of the attention I crave from him—yet it’s not lost on me that he cared for me in a way not many ever have.