57. Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Mialina
Istrip off my clothes and step beneath the shower. I’m going to stay in here for a very long time.
Anything to avoid Maximo and having to pretend I don’t know what he was doing in the shower.
Steam gathers around me as the water runs over my head and down my body. I close my eyes, hoping the heat will loosen the mortification knotted inside me.
It’s wishful thinking. Instead, I see Maximo’s wet back and the slow movement of his arm, hear the way he moaned my name.
My eyes fly open. Perhaps I need to turn the water to ice-cold.
I reach for the shampoo and work it through my hair, forcing my thoughts back to the plan I came up with in Sicily to forget Maximo Marco’s kiss.
I was supposed to find someone else to wipe away the memory. Instead of doing exactly that, I’ve kissed the same man twice more.
Let’s face it, that plan is a spectacular failure.
I scrub harder at my scalp.
Truth be told, I don’t really want to make out with another man. At least for right now, I enjoy kissing Maximo far too much.
I like the way he holds me and gives commands that should infuriate me. The hunger in his kisses affects me just as much, especially when I can feel how hard he’s fighting not to lose control.
And somehow, through all of it, he still notices every one of my reactions.
What would it take to finally make him snap?
No, you don’t want to find out.
Whatever happens when Maximo Marco stops holding back, I’m nowhere near ready for the consequences.
I tip my head beneath the water and rinse the shampoo from my hair.
Maximo drew a very clear line this morning. He won’t touch me intimately until I’m his wife, and since that isn’t going to happen, there’s no danger of our kissing leading to anything more.
I pour conditioner into my hands and smooth it through my hair. Reaching for the shower gel bottle, I freeze mid-motion.
That is the solution.
If I kiss Maximo often enough, the novelty will wear off. Anything becomes less appealing through excessive repetition.
Listen to the same song a hundred times, and eventually you start skipping it. Eat the same meal every day, and sooner or later you’ll never want to see it again.
Kissing surely must work the same way.
Admittedly, Maximo and I have made out three times now, and each time has been better than the last, but that only proves I haven’t reached the point of diminishing returns yet.
A smile spreads across my face.
I can kiss him as much as I want without worrying that it will lead to anything I’m not ready for because Maximo himself has imposed the boundary.
Meanwhile, repeated exposure will gradually rid me of this stupid fascination with his mouth, his hands, and the way he says my name when he’s…
No, we’re not revisiting the shower.
The point is, I can use his old-fashioned insistence on saving everything else for marriage against him. I’ll take the kisses, satisfy my curiosity, and continue until my body and mind finally realize he’s just an ordinary man.
This is brilliant.
By the time I turn off the shower, the humiliation of facing him has receded beneath the confidence of having a new plan. I wrap myself in an enormous white towel and begin squeezing the water from my hair.
A knock sounds at the door. “Mia?”
Every muscle in my body locks at the sound of Maximo’s voice.
“Yes?”
“There’s a bag of fresh clothes outside the door.”
His voice sounds normal. Not amused, suspicious, or remotely like that rough voice saying my name beneath the shower.
“Thank you.”
His footsteps retreat across the floor, and I wait until I can no longer hear them. Then I press my ear to the door for another full minute in case he’s loitering outside, hoping to witness my emergence.
Silence answers.
I hadn’t even thought about what I was going to wear. My outfit from yesterday or the comfort clothes Maximo got me last night would have been my only options.
Having boutiques in the same building is rather convenient. I could almost understand why Maximo owns an entire skyscraper if it means waking after a blizzard and having a new wardrobe delivered directly to the bathroom.
Keeping the towel secured around me with one hand, I ease the door open, grab the black shopping bag, and pull it inside before locking the door again.
What has he chosen for me this time?
I carry the bag to the vanity and pull out a pair of black boots, the soft leather reaching just below my knees.
A cream knit dress follows, along with thick black leggings.
The dress has long sleeves and a high, folded collar, soft enough to be comfortable after a night on the floor but elegant enough that I won’t look as though I slept in front of a fireplace during a snowstorm.
Fresh underwear and socks have been tucked in as well, all in the correct size. I run my fingers over the soft knit. This outfit is warm, practical, and exactly right for the weather.
Maximo chose well. Or someone in one of the boutiques did. There’s no reason to attach any significance to it.
I take my time getting ready, pulling on the fresh clothes before drying my hair until it falls in soft waves over my shoulders.
By the time I zip the boots and study my reflection, the woman in the mirror no longer looks like someone who fled through a penthouse after catching a Mafia Don pleasuring himself.
She looks composed, confident, and capable of facing him without dissolving from embarrassment.
Maximo probably expects me to avoid him after what happened. He might even believe he’s pushed me one step closer to agreeing to his proposal.
But he’s about to discover that I can use this attraction just as easily as he can.
I unlock the door and step into the hallway. The soft notes of a piano drift toward me from somewhere beyond the living room. I follow the music through the penthouse, past our abandoned nest of blankets, until the hallway opens into a vast kitchen of dark wood, pale stone, and gleaming steel.
Maximo stands behind the island with an espresso in one hand and his phone in the other. The gentle melody plays through hidden speakers, softer than anything I would have associated with him.
He’s changed back into one of his customary black suits.
Shame.
Those charcoal tracksuit pants were sinful enough to qualify as a threat to public morality. Then again, considering my new plan depends on maintaining some degree of control around him, the suit is probably a blessing.
Except he has left off the jacket and tie, and the top two buttons of his white shirt are undone. His sleeves are rolled back to his forearms, revealing strong wrists and a dusting of dark hair that my eyes have no business following.
My mouth goes dry.
Maximo looks up from his phone. His gaze travels over me, taking in the dress, leggings, and boots before returning to my face. I prepare myself for the smug smile, the pointed comment, or some unbearable reference to what happened in front of the fire.
None comes.
He sets his phone on the counter and regards me with the same calm composure as always, as though I hadn’t begged him to touch me this morning. More importantly, he shows no sign that he caught me inside his bedroom while he was doing… that.
Surely, if he’d seen me, he’d say something. Maximo never wastes an opportunity to gain an advantage. Relief loosens some of the tension in my shoulders.
“Are you okay?” he asks, the corners of his mouth lifting, as though he can hear every panicked thought racing through my head.
Heat rushes into my cheeks with such force that I’m sure he can watch the color spreading.
What is wrong with me?
He’s asking whether I slept comfortably or if I’m still frightened after the storm. He isn’t asking whether I’m okay after kissing him, begging him to touch me, or coming apart beneath him.
Unless he is.
Is he?
My fingers curl into the soft fabric of my dress as I search his expression for some indication that the question contains a hidden meaning. His eyes remain fixed on mine. They’re calm and unreadable as ever. Somehow, that only sends my thoughts racing faster.
“Why are you blushing?”
Oh God. He knows why I’m turning beet red. He’s just waiting for me to confess so he can stand there looking pleased with himself.
Searching desperately for an explanation that has nothing to do with the orgasm he coaxed from me without laying a hand between my thighs, I seize the first thought that enters my head.
“I’ve never spent the night with a man before.”
The words hang between us.
That’s no better. It sounded as though we had sex.
Maximo’s eyebrows rise, and the amusement already playing around his mouth deepens.
“Well, you know what I mean,” I add quickly. “Sleeping beside one. Actually sleeping.”
Something possessive sharpens in his eyes as he sets his espresso on the counter.
“I should hope not.”
His expression remains amused, but his voice carries a stern note that sends a delicious shiver down my spine.
“Every first of that kind belongs to me.”
The certainty in his voice does things to me that I refuse to acknowledge, now or ever.
Worse, I have no comeback. It’s as though my brain has become scrambled in his presence again, leaving me incapable of producing even one cutting response.
I don’t like this.
Needing somewhere else to look, I walk to the windows.
The sky has cleared, and the city below is covered in a pristine layer of white, the river cutting through it like a dark ribbon. It would be beautiful if the streets didn’t look so distant and the surrounding skyscrapers weren’t ending somewhere beneath my feet.
My head spins as I become aware of the height all over again. The tower may have stopped swaying, but I still want solid ground under me and no view of rooftops below.
“How much longer are we stranded here? Are the roads clear enough for us to get back to Aldo’s?”
“So keen to leave me?” he teases.
Yes.
“I’m eager to see Mamma after her trip.”
He holds my gaze for another moment before reaching for his espresso again, apparently satisfied that he has unsettled me enough for one morning.
“We’ll leave after we’ve had something to eat,” he says. “Now, what would you like for breakfast, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart?
My stomach performs a small, erratic flip, but I pretend not to notice. I’m getting damn good at ignoring the ways Maximo throws me off balance.
I tilt my head, about to lean against the window, but think better of it.
“You can cook?”
He chuckles, the low, rumbling sound carrying far too much enjoyment.
“I’m sure I could if I put my mind to it, but I was thinking of ordering from downstairs.”
“Ah, that makes much more sense.” I eye him skeptically. “I couldn’t imagine you behind a stove.”
“To be honest, neither can I.” His mouth twitches.
He turns to the coffee machine and presses a few buttons. Seconds later, the rich aroma of freshly brewed espresso drifts through the kitchen.
“Good. That would have been unsettling.”
Gladly turning my back on the windows and the dizzying view beyond them, I move to his side. He hands me the small cup, allowing our fingers to brush around the warm porcelain.
He did that on purpose, didn’t he?
“Do you cook?” Maximo asks.
I shake my head. “No, my father made sure of that.”
I take a sip of espresso and sigh happily.
“Cooking was beneath an Accardi. He had a massive aversion to us performing anything he considered a menial commoner’s task.
“When Isa was younger, she baked his favorite dessert for his birthday. I remember how horrified he looked when she proudly told him she’d made it herself. Most parents would have been touched. Our father acted as though she’d confessed to scrubbing floors.”
I shake my head at the memory. I was still little, but it left a lasting impression.
“He was always determined to marry us off to men who could afford full-time household staff. Why teach your daughters life skills when someone else can do everything for them?”
Maximo’s expression reveals nothing, but at the mention of my father, his eyes turn noticeably colder.
“So, what would you like for breakfast, darling?”
I blink, then narrow my eyes at him, though there’s no real heat behind it.
“First sweetheart, now darling?” I fold my arms. “What’s happening?”
“I’m testing pet names to see which one suits you best.” His tone is solemn, but I can hear the laughter beneath it.
I stare at him. Pet names… for his broodmare. Are horses considered pets?
“You really are an optimist,” I say as drily as possible before lifting my espresso to my lips.
He might not be able to cook, but at least he can operate the coffee machine.
“I keep telling you, I like to be prepared.”
I don’t waste my breath arguing with him. There will never be a time when he needs a permanent pet name for me, and that knowledge makes it safe enough to play along.
“Have you found a favorite yet?”
He takes a step toward me, then another, eliminating the space between us. My pulse immediately decides to become involved, beating harder with every inch he claims.
Before I can retreat, he reaches out and brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers are warm against my skin, and his hand lingers for one deliberate moment.
The gesture is so simple, yet somehow intimate. My stomach promptly forgets how to behave.
I swallow hard as his gaze shifts between my eyes before drifting to my mouth, as though he’s remembering what happened earlier.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low enough to send warmth sliding down my spine.
“I do.”
My heart stumbles.
“Little rebel.”