Chapter 14
Alessio Fortuna shows me into a fresh, airy third-floor room. Two large windows let in sunshine, filtered through the leaves of blossom trees nearby. The king-sized divan is scattered with big pillows and draped with a silky, embroidered turquoise throw.
The room has a couch and a chair, as well as a desk by one window. Two large carved wardrobes are on either side of a comfortably sized dressing table. Large mirrors soften and diffuse the light. Bright, painted landscapes hang in elegant, gilt frames.
His voice is as cold as a cellar. “You’ll be more comfortable here.” He opens a door, “Your bathroom is through there.” It’s huge, tiled all over, with a clawed-feet bath as well as a walk-in shower area.
“If you need anything, tell Jaggers.” He steps back into the room and stands in front of me. I’m not short, but my eyes are about level with the hot swell of his chest. His presence is borderline overwhelming, and the scents of him send my pulse pounding.
“You should have space for all your clothes and powders and paints and potions.”
His mocking lilt and the slight incline of his head show what he thinks of me. He sees me as a shallow, superficial airhead. Reaching deliberately forward, he lifts my chin on the crook of his forefinger.
My thighs tingle.
A chuckle rumbles in his chest, almost like he sees me squirm. Then his pupils dilate and his nostrils flare.
My heart flips and I remember that I need to breathe.
With his fingertip, he turns my head a little to one side. Then the other. A trace of a sarcastic grin pulls at the side of his mouth, and his head shakes slowly from side to side. His eyes rake all over me as he does.
The soft lining of my bra feels scratchy. My buds harden and rub, sore and hot.
His eyes smolder as he cups the back of my head in his hand. Then slowly, deliberately, he strokes his thumb behind my ear, down the side of my neck, and then down my throat.
His thumb slips around my throat. Presses on my windpipe. Like he’s showing me what he could do. Or perhaps what he might do. He looks in my eyes as he squeezes. He’s looking for a reaction.
I show him defiance.
I grew up in the Life. Pain and fear are not so new to me. Uncontrollable sensations of thrills are not so familiar as an endurance test, but I’m not going to give in to give him the satisfaction of letting it show.
His scent rises and I feel heat in front of my stomach. He makes me afraid. But I like it. How fucked up is that? As he comes nearer, I think about the knife I have strapped to my ankle.
He takes hold of the top button of my shirt with both hands.
With both of my hands, I grab his wrists. They’re too thick from me to get a proper grip, and he’s like iron, far too strong for me to resist or even to move. Under his sandalwood and musky cologne is a thick, darker, earthy scent that makes me panicky hot.
“Mm.” He rasps, “You smell good.” He could be talking about a steak au poivre.
His chin tips slightly up as his nostrils widen. Carefully, deliberately, one by one, he undoes the top four buttons of my shirt. I’m still holding on to his wrists, but I can’t even slow him down or deflect him.
He looks into my eyes. “You’ll do what I tell you.”
Inside I tremble. If I weren’t holding so tight on to his wrists, I might collapse.
Hie eyes light up as he watches the tops of my breasts flutter.
He slides both hands under my shirt, onto my shoulders. Now I have to let go of his arms. I feel too much like I’m aiding and abetting.
Without moving his arms, he leans in close to breathe a whisper into my ear. “I look forward to tasting you.” And he pulls back to look in my eyes, “All of you.”
My voice judders but I manage to say, “I’m here for Carlo.”
He lets go.
“Well, look at you.”
A low, dirty laugh breaks out of his throat. “Bless your heart. Thinking you’ll have choices to make around here.”
He takes another long, deep sniff, and his eyebrow hooks upward as his head tilts. “Is that the smell of a virgin?” He narrows his eyes. “I wonder.”
My mind spins in a fever as he turns slowly to leave.
I pull his hand to me and bite his pinky, looking in his eyes. His face doesn’t move. But I bite harder until water shows in his eye.
After I let go he looks at me for a second.
“Don’t mention our little moment to Carlo.” His eyes glint. “We wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”
The door shuts firmly behind him and silence rushes into the room from all sides.
When I start to unpack and put my things into the closets and drawers, I notice the room has a third door. I try it, but it’s locked. As the realization sinks in, it gives me an agitated buzz. Crazy with the idea that Alessio might have locked me in, I rush to the main door.
The handle turns and my breathing recovers. The door opens easily. The spacious, empty corridor seems like a lazy, yawning mockery of my panic. But I look back over my shoulder. There’s another door, next to mine. That must be where the door in my room connects to. I don’t make a sound as I pad along the thick carpet to the door.
There’s movement in the room. Unsure whether to lean and press my ear to the paneled wood door, or to knock, or just spin the handle and barge in, my insides clamp solid.
Then my stomach falls through the floor. I almost melt as I catch Alessio’s lingering scent.
Back in my room, I have to keep busy. I take a shower.
It’s been a long day. Early in the morning, I rose and dressed in black in my anonymous motel room in almost complete darkness, let myself out and padded the few blocks to Gianni’s house. Then the gut-churning deeds. I really was hoping that Paulo was going to handle himself better than he did.
Then Daddy. Damn. I always knew he would throw me under the bus if he thought he had to, but, damn, Daddy. Really? Now? And like this?
I’m thinking of all the other times I thought I wouldn’t trust him again, but this time really does feel different.
Immersing myself in water is the reset I need.
Except, as the suds roll down my chest, I think about that door in my room. And images of him stir. I feel the shadow of his hands where he put them on me. His flesh, laid on my bare skin. Poised, above my aching breasts. My buds harden and sting as the images wash back over me.
The irresistible strength in his wrists. His hard, arrogant certainty.
Twitching and shaking inside as I lather myself, I can’t chase the thoughts of him out of my mind any more than I can chase the imaginings off my soft flesh. Especially in the dark places. Places where I crave for a firm hand. And more.
The melting surface of the slippery bar of soap is a poor substitute. Even though it slips over and around every part of me. And it glides into all of my crevices.
It isn’t hot enough.
Or hard enough.
And it doesn’t pulse.
But it does slide, and it lathers.
All the tension I’ve held back today beats and thrums into a crescendo. Between my fingers and my feverish imagination, the slather and the slippery, elusive friction build my pulse up to a critical mass. An unstoppable pressure, ready to burst, come whatever may.
My chest tightens and my knees turn to water as my thighs tingle and quiver.
I can’t stop my slick fingers, pushing the rhythm higher and up to the tipping point then, almost flippantly, tossing me over the edge.
Warm water trickles and floods over me as I slide down to sit in the corner of the shower, trembling. Emptied. Free of thought. Lost in the pool of draining water. Almost purged and cleansed.