Chapter 19 Violet #2
A single saleswoman with glossy hair and a practiced smile greets us at the door and then locks it behind us. Racks of designer clothes in every shade cover the walls. The saleswoman offers me Champagne, which I decline because I need my wits about me for whatever game we’re playing.
Elio settles into a velvet chair near the fitting room. Legs spread. Arms resting at the sides. The perfect picture of a man waiting to see what his money can buy.
I try three dresses.
A black sheath that’s elegant but forgettable. A gold thing with too much sparkle. And then—
Red.
Deep crimson silk. The neckline plunges to my navel, two wide strips of fabric barely covering my breasts. No back at all. The skirt is full-length with a slit high enough to show flashes of bare leg when I walk.
And then there’s the hickey he gave me, visible for anyone to see.
I step out of the fitting room.
Elio goes still.
His jaw tightens. Knuckles whiten where they grip the chair arms. His eyes track down my body slowly, methodically, like he’s committing every inch to memory.
I turn in a slow circle. Let him see the bare back. The way the fabric clings to my ass. The hickey on my neck like a brand.
“Is it too much?”
His voice comes out clipped. “It’s perfect.”
“You don’t think it’s a bit—” I smooth my hands down my hips, watching his throat bob. “Provocative?”
“Keep it on.” Not a request. An order. His control fraying at the edges.
Good.
The transaction happens in rapid Italian.
I don’t catch all of it, but the saleswoman’s eyes widen as she hands him five bags filled with garments I didn’t pick.
I guess old habits die hard. Then Elio’s hand finds the small of my back, pressing his palm against my bare skin where the dress leaves my spine exposed, and guides me toward the door.
The heat of his touch sears straight through me, no silk barrier, just rough calluses against smooth skin I haven’t let anyone see in years.
I lean into it. Don’t pull away. Don’t stiffen. Just press closer, letting my body mold to the pressure of his hand like it’s the most natural thing, like I’ve been waiting for this exact point of contact.
His fingers flex against my spine, a sharp, involuntary flex, and I hear the quick hitch in his breath, the sound he tries to swallow.
I’m pushing deliberately now.
Testing how far I can go before he snaps, before I snap, before this careful game we’re both playing breaks wide open.
The restaurant he takes me to screams privacy and money.
A few other patrons look up as we walk through the main dining room.
People in expensive suits and designer dresses eating their lunch like they don’t have a care in the world.
Like the world kept on turning while I was held captive in Elio’s gilded cage.
Which I guess it did. We don’t stop at any of the empty tables, instead, I’m led through a heavy door into a private room.
Marble floors. Soundproofed walls covered in deep burgundy fabric. A single table set for two, candles already burning, wine already breathing.
The door closes behind us with a soft click, making me jump.
It’s the first time since this morning that we’ve been alone. No guards, no tourists, no salespeople.
Staff bring courses and leave. Quick, efficient, professional.
Between service, it’s just us. The silence charged with everything neither of us is saying.
I watch him across the table. The way his eyes keep dropping to my neckline.
The white-knuckle grip on his fork. The effort it’s taking to maintain composure.
“The guard from last night,” I say between bites of something delicate I don’t taste. “What happened to him?”
His fork goes down too carefully.
“He was taken to the hospital. I’ve been told they’ve managed to reset his bones.” His voice is flat. “He won’t work for me again.”
“Because you fired him, or because he’s too scared?”
“Both.”
I lean forward. The movement shifts the dress, bares more of my side breast. His eyes drop, then snap back to my face with visible effort.
“I keep thinking about it.”
His whole body tenses. “The guard?”
“No.” I hold his gaze. “You. The way you moved. The look on your face when you broke his arm.”
Silence.
“No one’s ever done that for me,” I continue. Voice soft. “Broken bones over an insult. Protected me like that. Made it absolutely clear that anyone who disrespects me will suffer for it.”
His breathing changes from controlled to a rhythm that’s fast and shallow.
“Violet—”
“I wanted to see it again.” The admission slips out. “Last night, when we walked back, I wanted you to lose control again. Wanted to feel that focus on me.”
“Stop.” Low. Warning.
I don’t stop.
“Did you mean it? When you said I was yours?”
“Tesoro—”
“Because I want to know if it’s real.” I stand. Walk around the table toward him. Each step slow and taunting as the silk moves, exposing my thighs. “Your obsession. Whatever this is. I need to know I’m not just—”
I can’t articulate what I need.
Proof that I matter. That I’m not nothing. That the violence and the want and the way he looks at me mean something more than possession.
“—just entertainment,” I finish. “Something to fuck with when you’re bored. Something to break.”
He snaps.
One moment he’s sitting. The next he’s on his feet, moving too fast to track, and my back hits the wall with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs.
His hand wraps around my jaw. Tilting my face up. Body caging me against the soft wall.
“You want me to lose control?” His voice is wrecked. Dark. “I am barely holding onto control when you’re in the room, tesoro. When you walk. When you breathe. When you look at me like you’re looking at me right now.”
My heart hammers. Pulse pounding in my throat under his palm.
“Tell me to stop.” His eyes bore into mine. “Right now. Say the word, and I take you back to the villa. Nothing happens. I walk away.”
I open my mouth.
Stop.
Four letters. One syllable. I’ve said it before. Can say it again.
“I don’t—” My voice breaks. “I didn’t mean it, I take it back—”
“That’s not stop.”
I don’t say stop.
His control shatters.
Both hands bury in my hair, tightening—not gentle, not careful, but like he’s been holding back so long the restraint is physically painful.
His fingers thread through the strands, knuckles brushing my scalp, then close into fists, pulling just enough to tilt my head back and force my eyes to his. I see it then, the crack.
His pupils blown wide, breathing ragged, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumps under the skin.
The man who offered me stop after stop, he’s gone.
What’s left is hunger stripped bare, the leash he’s kept on himself finally snapped.
Both hands bury deeper in my hair, holding me exactly where he wants me as his mouth crashes into mine.
Not soft. Not asking. Just claiming. His lips seal over mine, rough and desperate, tongue pushing past the seam of my mouth before I can even draw breath to protest. I make a sound against him, small, helpless, wanting, and he swallows it like it’s fuel, like he’s been starving for that exact noise.
He takes more.
Deeper. Harder. One hand slides to cup the back of my neck, thumb pressing against my pulse, feeling how fast it races. The other stays tangled in my hair, keeping me locked to him so I can’t pull away even if I wanted to.
I don’t.
My hands are still on his shoulders, fingers digging in, but now they’re pulling him closer instead of bracing. My body arches into his without permission, breasts pressing against his chest, hips seeking the hard line of him through the dress.
He groans into my mouth, low, broken, and the sound vibrates through me, straight between my legs.
“This is a mistake—” I gasp when he breaks the kiss to drag his mouth down my jaw. “We can’t—”
But I’m not pushing. My fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he knows. Of course he knows.
His hands find the straps of red fabric covering my breasts. Slide them down my shoulders with agonizing slowness.
The dress pools at my waist.
Cool air hits my bare chest. Nipples hardening instantly. From cold, from want, from the way he’s looking at me like I’m something sacred.
“We can’t—” I try again. Body arching toward him. Betraying every word.
His hands cup my breasts. Thumbs brush over my nipples.
“Please don’t—” Broken. Desperate. I don’t know what I’m begging for.
He pulls back. Just enough to see me. Takes in my bare breasts, my swollen lips, the flush spreading down my chest. His expression is reverent. Hungry. Like he’s looking at something he’s been starving for.
“Tell me to stop,” he says again. “Just say the word.”
I can’t.
Can’t speak. Can’t think. Can only whimper when his mouth drops to my breast, tongue circling my nipple before his lips close around it and suck.
Sensation shoots between my legs. Hot and devastating.
My hands fly to his hair, pulling closer, not away. Fingers tangling in the dark strands, holding him against me while his mouth does unspeakable things.
His hand slides under my skirt. Beneath my panties. Finds me soaking through the thin fabric.
“Still pretending,” he murmurs against my breast. “Still lying to yourself while you drench my hand.”
His fingers find my clit, and circle it precisely, making my knees buckle.
He catches me. Presses me harder against the wall. One hand on my hip, holding me up. The other between my legs, touching me exactly how I touched myself this morning. Like he knows. Like he watched.
His mouth moves to my other breast. Teeth scraping over sensitive flesh. Tongue soothing the sting.
Fingers slide inside me.
I cry out. Two fingers, stretching me, curling. His palm grinds against my clit with every thrust.
“We shouldn’t—” My hips roll against his hand. Betraying me. “Oh god, we shouldn’t—”
“Push me away.” His voice is rough. Wrecked. “Tell me no and mean it.”
I can’t.