Chapter Twenty-Six
Raya
UPSTAIRS, IN STEFANO’S ROOM, a rack of clothing sits parked just outside the closet. My name printed on the display tag affixed to the sleek stainless-steel bar leaves no doubt it’s for me.
The “things” he mentioned…
All the pieces are soft, delicately feminine. In varying shades of gold, ivory, burgundy, and emerald-green. Short skirts and mini dresses, sleep sets and lingerie, silks and laces. All in cuts and styles I never wear unless I have a very specific reason.
Well...I’m here with nothing to wear. That’s a reason, right?
You’re his doll, you fool. His plaything.
Biting my lip, I tentatively pull out a flowy mini dress with thin spaghetti straps and lay it across the bed. My mom is probably the most naturally alluring woman I’ve ever known. A head-turner. A showstopper. She attracts and entices without effort. And my father worships the ground she walks on.
I’ve envied her confidence, her magnetism. Wondered what it’s like to have that…thing. That thing that makes men salivate. To walk into a room and make them pause mid-breath. To have a glow so dazzling it forces others to shrink back.
But earlier, when Stefano Castello looked at me…touched me…held me fully under his focus and told me he was addicted, it made me feel like I have a thing of my own. A glow of my own.
Foolish, I know. Especially since he’s as smooth a liar as I am.
Still, sweet lies or not, they’ve left me with enough confidence to want to put this dress on.
To feel sexy.
For him.
Fighting back a smile, I head into the bathroom and find a luxury spa basket with my name on it, packed with toiletries.
Oh, this abduction wasn’t spontaneous. He planned it. Quite confidently. And timed it perfectly with his irascible brother conveniently out of town for the weekend.
Why, though? And why here? What on earth is he up to?
I take a long shower and wash my hair, then work in some mousse from the spa kit to keep it wavy. After moisturizing and getting dressed, I head downstairs.
Stefano’s in the living room, on the phone, his tone sharp and irritable as he rips into someone for being “incompetent.”
Yeah…better to avoid him for now. I slip out back instead.
Across the sprawling yard sits a beautiful guest house.
On the porch swing, a middle-aged couple lounges with coffee mugs in hand, watching the torrential downpour of rain.
From what I know, the Grenadian family of four—they have two sons—lives there in exchange for maintaining the house and property.
I tilt my head up at the darkened sky. It looks enraged, blasting down tears of fury. Someone’s clearly pissed off up there.
After a few long breaths of this much-needed, much-appreciated rain, I head back inside and make my way to the kitchen.
The pantry is fully stocked, the fridge overflowing. Several neatly stacked containers sit waiting on the marble island. I pop the lid on one and smile appreciatively at the delectable assortment of homemade pastries that greet me. This has Cora written all over it.
I’m polishing off a mascarpone puff pastry when Stefano strides into the kitchen. Despite all the growling he was doing on the phone minutes ago, he’s wearing a small smile now, an unusual brightness in his eyes.
“Figured I’d find you in here,” he says. “Just follow the food.”
He’s changed into black lounge pants and house loafers, but his bare chest and distractingly perfect Adonis belt are still very much on display.
I dust the corners of my mouth and finish chewing before speaking. “A rack of clothes, a basket of toiletries, containers of food… How long do you plan on keeping me here?”
He picks a pastry from the container. “Just for the weekend.”
“Lorenzo wants me to check in with him every hour—”
“Don’t tell him you’re here.”
That makes me hike a brow at him. “Is there something going on that I should know about?”
“You’re good at lying, yeah?” His tone is casual, conversational, not accusing. “Do that when you check in.”
His gaze roams across my face, slow and deliberate, glinting with something I can’t quite name. “Want to feel something?”
Huh? “What?”
He moves the breakfast stool that’s separating us. “What happens when I look at you.”
“I don’t under—”
He closes the gap between us and takes my hand. Maintaining eye contact, as if to ensure he has full consent, he guides it down to…
Oh.
Oh wow.
One would think I’m some naive, inexperienced little thing with how slow I was on the uptake just now.
Stefano is hard. Really hard. And packing. And commando.
Of its own volition, my traitorous hand…moves. Rubs along the unrestrained length of him through the soft black fabric, carnal heat radiating from him like a furnace.
“I—” I do this to him. Me. “Every time?”
“Every fucking time,” he replies.
“And how do you, uh...deal with it?”
“Wouldn’t have made it this far in life without a firm rein on my self-control, Delilah.”
I wet my lips. “So... does my being here right now mean you’ve lost that battle with your self-control?”
His eyes narrow, then soften, then goes flat. All in a blink. “You’re rubbing my cock right now, and I’m so hard I could fuck a hole through a wall. Still, I’m not bending you over this stool and ripping those pretty panties aside.” He tilts his head. “What does that tell you?”
A bolt of disappointment shoots through me and I rip my hand away. Why the hell did he bring me here, then, if not to fuck me? What, to prop me up like a freaking painting and just stare at me?
“So you’re just gonna walk around with a hard-on all weekend?”
“Been doing it since I met you. What’s another two days?” He takes a bite of his pastry and, almost mockingly, arches a maddening brow at me. “How’s your self-control?”
Before I can come up with a half-decent lie, his phone rings on the counter. Lorenzo’s name lights up the screen.
Stefano—a grown-ass man, head of his own empire, no one’s subordinate—presses a finger to his lips in the universal be quiet sign, then picks up the phone and walks out of the kitchen to answer it.
It’s hilarious, honestly. How he’s skulking around like some sneaky teenager throwing a forbidden house rager while his strict parents are out of town. He’s the boss, he can do whatever the hell he wants. So what’s with all the secrecy?
Something weird is going on between him and Lorenzo. And whatever it is, I have a feeling it’s got everything to do with me.
As I close the pastry container and start out of the kitchen, my phone chirps.
A text from Gio.
Gio: Hey, pretty eyes. Still at Black Gold? Wanna see you.
Me: Wow! Look who finally remembered I exist.
Gio: You thought I forgot you? Never. You’re like a virus in my brain.
Gio: I’ve just been busy. Miss hanging with you.
Me: Lol. You’re the definition of a player.
Gio: Where are you? I’ll come get you.
Me: In this weather?
Gio: I’d get struck by lightning a million times for you. Where?
I’m halfway through tapping out a response when my phone is rudely snatched from my hands. I whirl around to find Stefano standing there, looking peeved as he scans the screen.
Jaw tightening, he silently fists the phone then slides it into his pocket. “I’ll hold on to this.”
“But Lorenzo—”
“I’ll do the check-ins for you.”
“You’re being—”
“Come on.” He grabs my hand and hauls me over to the massive pit couch in the living area. “Just sit here and relax with me.” He pulls me down with him. “No thoughts of anyone else, yeah?”
Leaning back, he tucks me in tight against his side, like he’s staking a claim. “How are you not obsessed with me yet, Delilah? I’m perfectly crafted. Exquisite. Divinity. One of a kind. A paragon of beauty. There’s no finer motherfucker than me.”
This has me stifling a giggle. “You’re literally a twin. An identical twin.”
“Well, yeah, sure. But I’m the hot one. Even Stevie Wonder can see that.”
“Wow,” I mumble through a laugh. “Your humility is inspiring.”
Calm and relaxed, he gazes down at me, a sinful gleam in his eyes. “I like your smile…and the sound of your laugh.” He sweeps his thumb across my cheekbone. “I like you, little liar.”
Be still, my heart. “Enough that you won’t try to kill me at any point this weekend?”
“As long as I don’t catch you texting other men.”
Ridiculous.
Idly, I trail a finger along the groove of his abs. “What is it you want from me?”
His answering sigh is thick and heavy. Like it’s a question he’s asked himself a hundred times. “I don’t know. All I know is that I feel…good when you’re near. Balanced. Relaxed. I don’t understand it, but...I’m selfish.”
For veracity’s sake, I sweep my gaze downward, and…yep. He’s still hard. Hmm. I’m finding it difficult to believe that a perpetual erection with no relief is relaxing. Painful torture seems more like it. But what do I know?
Still…I let my guard down a little and allow myself to relax. Just a bit. Just enough to breathe next to him.
Let’s be honest, a leopard doesn’t change its spots, and Stefano Castello is not a gentleman. He’s not nice. Not kind or sweet or tender. He’s not built for softness.
He’s a fighter, not a lover. Mean. Ruthless. And dangerously smart with it.
Trust him? Believe him? Very unwise.
At the same time, my distrust could be projection. As my dad used to say: “People see others the way they are.”
My feelings for Stefano are true and genuine. My desire for him is real. Always have been. But I don’t trust him.
Maybe it’s the same for Stefano. He’s made it clear to anyone who’ll listen that he doesn’t trust me. But that doesn’t mean he’s lying about how he feels about me. Two things can be true at once. He can distrust me, and still want me.
Torn between desire and common sense, I draw lazy circles on his abs. “Tell me something about yourself that only those closest to you know.”
He’s hesitant at first, no doubt assuming I have some hidden agenda. But then his chest rises and falls in a long, quiet sigh, like he’s surrendering something. “I…have premonitory dreams.”