Chapter 11 #2
Two hours later, I am sitting in a plush velvet chair in a private fitting room at one of the most expensive boutiques in Manhattan, watching Rosalina model outfit after outfit, and I am fairly certain I have died and gone to heaven.
Or hell.
Definitely one of the two, because this is the sweetest torture I have ever experienced.
The fitting room is all cream walls and gold accents, with mirrors on three sides and soft lighting that makes everything look like a dream.
There is champagne chilling in a bucket that neither of us has touched, and a small mountain of clothing piled on the settee next to me—things the sales associate has been bringing in at regular intervals based on sizes I guessed at and preferences I made up.
Rosalina disappeared behind the curtain fifteen minutes ago, and I have been sitting here trying very hard not to imagine what she looks like between outfit changes—all bare skin and black lace and curves that have been living rent-free in my head since the moment I met her.
The curtain rustles.
She steps out in a black dress—short and tight and showing off legs that go on for miles—and does a little spin that makes the hem flare up and give me a glimpse of black lace underneath.
My brain short-circuits.
"What do you think?" she asks, placing her hands on her hips, watching me with those dark eyes that see way too much, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"I think that dress is dangerous," I manage, shifting in my seat because watching her parade around in increasingly revealing outfits is doing things to my self-control that should probably be illegal.
She turns to examine herself in the three-way mirror, running her hands down her sides. "Dangerous how?"
"Dangerous in that if you wear it in public, I'm going to have to kill at least three men for looking at you the wrong way."
She laughs—actually laughs, bright and genuine and completely unguarded—and the sound does something to my chest that I am not ready to examine. "Possessive much?"
"You have no idea, Fiorella."
She catches my eye in the mirror, something heated passing between us, before she disappears back into the changing room. I hear the rustle of fabric, the slide of a zipper, her soft humming, and I have to adjust myself again because even the sounds of her changing are doing things to me.
The curtain parts again, and she emerges in a red silk blouse and leather shorts that fit her like they were painted on, like they were created specifically to destroy what little remains of my sanity.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe, sitting up straighter.
"Too much?" She does another spin, slower this time, giving me the full effect.
"Not enough." I stand up, moving closer, circling her slowly while she watches me in the mirror with eyes that have gone dark and knowing. "Turn around."
She does, slowly, and I get the full effect—the way the silk clings to her breasts, the way the leather hugs her ass like a second skin, the way her hair falls over one shoulder in dark waves that I want to wrap around my fist.
"We're taking this one," I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
She turns to face me, eyebrows raised. "You haven't even asked how much it costs."
"Don't care." I meet her eyes, letting her see exactly how affected I am. "We're taking all of it."
"Luca—"
"All. Of. It." I emphasize each word, taking another step closer. "Every single thing you've tried on. Every single thing you're going to try on. I don't care if it costs ten dollars or ten thousand. If it looks that good on you, it's coming home with us."
She turns to face me fully, and there is something soft in her expression now, something almost vulnerable that makes my chest tighten. "You can't just—"
"I can. I am." I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her jaw. "Let me do this, Lina. Let me take care of you."
"Why?" The word comes out barely above a whisper.
"Because I want to. Because you deserve it.
Because watching you light up when you find something you love is worth more than whatever number ends up on my credit card statement.
" I trace my thumb along her cheekbone. "Because I've been stuck in meetings with Frank Lucas for four days straight listening to him pontificate about his empire while all I could think about was getting back here to you. "
Her breath hitches. "You were thinking about me?"
"Constantly, Fiorella. Constantly and inappropriately and in ways that would make you blush."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her fighting with herself, fighting against letting someone take care of her, fighting against accepting something that feels too much like intimacy.
Then she steps closer—so close I can feel her breath against my throat, so close I can see the individual flecks of gold in her dark eyes—and looks up at me through her lashes.
"What if I want to try on lingerie?" she asks, voice pitched low and teasing, her fingers coming up to toy with the top button of my shirt.
My brain short-circuits for the second time in ten minutes.
"Then I will sit right here," I manage, catching her hand and pressing it flat against my chest where she can feel my heart hammering, "and watch you model every single piece. And then I will buy all of it. And then I will have very detailed fantasies about taking it off you later."
"Just fantasies?" Her fingers curl into my shirt.
I cup her face with my free hand, tilting her head back so I can see her eyes clearly, searching for any hesitation, any doubt. "Are you asking me for more than fantasies, Fiorella?"
Her breath catches, lips parting. "Maybe."
"Maybe isn't an answer." I lean in closer, my mouth hovering just above hers. "Then yes," she whispers, and there is no hesitation in her voice now, no doubt. "I'm asking."
The air between us goes electric, charged with tension that has been building since the moment I found her in my hoodie this morning. Since before that, if I am honest. Since the first time I saw her and knew—just knew—that she was going to ruin me in the best possible way.
"Rosalina," I murmur, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended, scraped raw with want. "If you're asking what I think you're asking, I need you to be very clear. Crystal clear. Because once I start, I'm not stopping."
"I'm asking," she says, more firmly now, her free hand coming up to cup my jaw. "I'm asking you to touch me. To kiss me. To—"
I don't let her finish. I crush my mouth to hers in a kiss that is all heat and hunger and barely controlled need.
She makes a sound—surprised and wanting—and then her arms are around my neck and she is kissing me back with the same desperation I feel, like she has been waiting for this just as long as I have.
She tastes sweet like honey, and when I slide my tongue against hers she whimpers into my mouth in a way that makes me want to back her against the mirror and show her exactly what I have been thinking about since the moment she walked into our lives.
My hands find her waist, fingers digging into the soft leather, sliding down to grip her hips and pull her flush against me so she can feel exactly what she does to me.
She gasps when she feels how hard I am, hips rolling forward instinctively, and I swallow the sound with another kiss, deeper this time, claiming.
"Luca," she breathes against my mouth when we break apart for air, her chest heaving, her fingers twisted in my shirt.
"I know, Lina. I know." I trail my lips down her jaw, find the sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her shiver and gasp, her nails digging into my shoulders through the fabric. "I've got you."
My mouth moves lower, teeth grazing the tendon in her neck, and she makes another one of those desperate sounds that makes my blood run hotter.
Her hips roll against me again, seeking friction, seeking more, and I groan against her skin because she is going to kill me, absolutely destroy me, and I am going to let her.
I walk her backward until her spine hits the mirror with a soft thump, caging her in with my body, one hand braced beside her head while the other slides down her side, over the curve of her waist, her hip, coming to rest on her thigh.
"Luca," she gasps again, and my name has never sounded better than it does coming from her mouth like that—breathless and needy and wrecked.
I capture her mouth again, kissing her deeper, harder, swallowing every sound she makes.
Her leg hooks around my hip, pulling me closer, and the friction makes us both groan into the kiss.
My hand slides higher on her thigh, fingertips slipping just barely under the hem of those leather shorts, feeling the heat of her skin—
A sharp knock on the door makes us both freeze.
"Excuse me," comes a tightly controlled female voice from the other side—the sales associate, and she sounds extremely displeased. "This is not appropriate behavior in our fitting rooms."
Another knock, more insistent this time.
"We have policies about—"
I pull back from Rosalina just enough to turn my head toward the door, keeping her caged against the mirror with my body. "We're busy," I call out, my voice rough and darker than I intended.
"Sir, I must insist—"
"Give us five minutes," I say, and there is no request in my tone, just command.
Silence from the other side of the door. Then footsteps retreating, though I can practically feel the disapproval radiating through the wood.
I turn back to Rosalina, and she is staring at me with wide eyes, her lips swollen and red from my mouth, her chest rising and falling rapidly. A laugh bubbles up from her throat—slightly hysterical, slightly delighted.
"We just got scolded by a sales clerk," she says, and she sounds equal parts mortified and amused.