Chapter 11 #3
I’m thinking about his hands. Those long, elegant fingers that I’ve watched drum against his desk when he’s thinking or run through his hair when he’s frustrated.
I’ve spent way too much time imagining what those hands would feel like on my body—how they’d circle my waist or feel sliding up my thighs or how they’d grip my hips.
And his mouth. The way his lips curve when he smiles, the slight fullness of his bottom lip that I want to bite. I’m thinking about what he’d taste like. How would he kiss? Would it be gentle or demanding or some perfect combination of both?
My thoughts trail to his voice. Would his voice drop low and rough the way it does sometimes when he says my name? Fuck, how I want to hear that voice in the dark, in bed, whispering things that would make me blush.
My hand slides down my body almost without conscious thought, and I let myself imagine what would have happened if Dante hadn’t called as I slip them inside me and press against the spot that makes my legs shake.
I imagine Leo kissing me, his mouth finally closing that last inch of distance, his lips pressing against mine with all the want I saw in his eyes.
He’d kiss me hard, demanding, like he’s been holding back for weeks and finally can’t anymore.
One hand would stay cupped against my face while the other tightened on my waist, pulling me flush against him until I could feel every hard line of his body.
I imagine stumbling backward until my back hits the wall, his body pressing me there, solid and warm and right.
His hands would be everywhere—sliding into my hair, gripping my hips, trailing up my ribs.
He’d tilt my head back to deepen the kiss, and I’d make some embarrassing sound that would make him smile against my mouth.
But this is the shower, not the dining room, and in this fantasy we don’t stop.
I imagine Leo pressing me against the shower wall instead, the tile cool against my back in contrast to the heat of his skin.
Water would run over both of us as his mouth moved from my lips to my jaw to that spot on my neck that I know would make me gasp.
His hands would slide down my body, learning every curve, every sensitive spot.
“Emma,” he’d say in that deep, rough voice, and I’d feel it everywhere.
My fingers move faster, my breathing getting harder as the fantasy builds.
I imagine his hand replacing mine between my legs, those long fingers sliding through my wetness with expert confidence.
He’d know exactly where to touch and how much pressure, because Leo Santoro doesn’t do anything halfway.
He’d watch my face while he touched me, those dark eyes intense and focused, drinking in every reaction.
“Tell me what you want,” he’d murmur against my skin, his fingers moving in slow circles that are driving me crazy.
“You,” I’d gasp. “I want you.”
And then his fingers would slide inside me, curling just right while his thumb circled my clit, and I’d be lost. I’d grip his shoulders, his hair, anything I could reach, while he worked me higher and higher. He’d kiss me while I came apart, swallowing my moans, his own breathing harsh with want.
But he wouldn’t stop there. In my fantasy, he’d lift me up, my legs wrapping around his waist, and I’d feel the hard length of him pressed exactly where I need him.
His forehead would rest against mine, both of us breathing hard, and he’d ask one more time—“Are you sure?”—because even in my fantasies Leo asks for permission.
“Yes,” I’d breathe. “Please, yes.”
My own hand is moving desperately now, chasing the fantasy.
I’m biting my lip to keep quiet, my other hand braced against the shower wall, my legs starting to shake.
I imagine Leo pushing inside me slowly, his dark eyes locked on mine, both of us gasping at the sensation.
I imagine the weight of him, the stretch, the perfect fullness.
I imagine his voice rough in my ear saying my name like a prayer—
The orgasm crashes through me hard enough that I actually whimper, my knees going weak as pleasure rolls through me in waves. I slump against the shower wall, gasping, my heart pounding as the aftershocks slowly fade.
Then reality crashes back in.
I just masturbated thinking about Leo Santoro.
About my kidnapper.
The shame makes my stomach twist. What the fuck is wrong with me?
We almost crossed a line tonight—almost kissed in his dining room like he’s not using me as leverage against my father.
And instead of being horrified, instead of being grateful that Dante called when he did, I ran straight to the shower to touch myself while fantasizing about what would have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted.
How can I want him this badly? How can I stand here imagining his hands on my body, his voice in my ear, his mouth on mine, when he’s the reason I can't see my mother? When he’s the reason I’m locked in this house? He’s supposed to be my enemy.
But even as the guilt and shame wash over me, I can’t deny the truth.
I wanted Leo to kiss me tonight. I wanted it so badly that when his phone rang I nearly cried from frustration. And now that I’ve had time to think about it and worked through some of this desperate physical need in the shower, I still want it. I want him.
I want the Leo Santoro who gently cupped my face, who looked at me like I mattered more than anything else in the world.
The one who brings me coffee made exactly how I like it and asks my opinion about business deals and debates restaurant quality with genuine passion.
The one who helped me through a panic attack with such gentle patience that I can still feel the memory of his touch.
I want the man who exists in the spaces between his duties and his grief, the one I’ve gotten to know over three weeks of conversations and arguments. The one who looks at me sometimes like I’m the only person in the world who matters.
And I hate myself for it.
I hate that my body betrays me this way. I hate that I can’t control my own desires. But most of all, I hate that I’ve become the girl who falls for her captor like some fucked-up cliché.
But hating it doesn’t make it go away.
I finish my shower in a daze, dry off mechanically, and pull on my pajamas without really thinking about it. When I climb into bed, I stare at the ceiling and try to process what this means.
Tomorrow I’ll go back to pretending none of this happened. I’ll keep my distance at breakfast and avoid his eyes at dinner and definitely won’t let us get that close again. I’ll remind myself that he’s my kidnapper and I’m his prisoner and there’s no world where this ends well.
Tomorrow I’ll be smart about this.