39
I turn, blinking up at him through the dim light of the garage. His dark hair falls over his forehead, his features impassive as he types on his phone with one hand. He’s clearly distracted, because he registers my movement a beat too late.
He glances down at me, his gaze washing over my face. My heartbeat quickens as he brushes a strand of hair away from my face with his big hand, his touch rough against my temple.
“No nightmare?” he asks, his voice low.
Surprised that he asked, I shake my head in a slow daze. How could I get a nightmare when he kept me up for most of the night?
Torren gives me a long look, like he can read my thoughts — like his mind is exactly where mine is. My stomach flutters. As he looks down at me, I can feel his breath mingling with mine, his scent engulfing me.
He draws his hand away from my hair, trailing his index finger down my forehead — along the bridge of my nose and then the Cupid’s bow of my lips, the flesh swollen and tingling. His other fingers play along my jaw as he tugs my bottom lip down with the rough pad of his thumb.
He gives me another long look, his eyes searching my face.
And then he leans down, pressing his lips to mine.
It’s tender. Raw. He threads his hand through my hair, cupping the crown of my head with his hand as he kisses me, pulling me closer to him.
I bare my throat to him, my body arching up against his as I respond to his touch. He trails his free hand down my throat, between my beasts and over my stomach before his fingers curl around the inside of my thigh possessively.
The kiss is slow, languid — yet every brush of his tongue against mine is charged with an electricity that threatens to consume me.
He takes and takes, not caring that I need to come up to breathe.
“Air,” I murmur a garbled demand into his mouth. “I need air.”
He scoffs. “You need me.”
It’s like he’s punishing me for keeping this from him for so long. Finally, he pulls away, and I gasp for breath, my lips fizzing.
His hand travels to the apex of my thighs as he dips it between my legs. There’s a spark of lust in his eyes that sends a shiver down my spine. “You’re wet,” he says.
I clamp down on my jaw and press my thighs together as memories of him entering me while kissing me invade my mind.
Light enters his eyes. “Greedy girl.”
I scowl at his derisive tone, but it’s true. I’m a little too addicted to him kissing me. Missionary might be my favorite, only because it means that he can kiss me while he’s inside me.
He kisses like he fucks — Hard. Fervent. Precise.
Like he’s working hard for it.
Torren brushes his fingers against my clit, and I make a muffled sound of protest, but little attempt to get him away. His fingers come up over the sensitive nub again, and he’s right — I really am wet, because his fingers are slick with my arousal.
He increases the pressure on my clit, rubbing in slow circles. It’s so crisp, so sweet, and—
His phone rings.
And he answers it.
“Hm,” he says into the receiver.
I grit my teeth, moving to get up, but his presses the heel of his palm down harder between my legs, pushing me back down to the leather and keeping me anchored in place. My head settles back on his lap.
“Get to the point,” he mutters. “I’m busy.”
There’s a moment’s pause, the person on the other side probably saying they’ll call him later.
But Torren just shakes his head.
“Just a minor distraction,” he says, “Nothing that can’t be handled.”
And then he goes back to playing with my clit.
Lazily, like I’m just a paperweight on his desk.
Annoyed, I’m about to swat his hand away, when suddenly, he slides two fingers inside me. I gasp, almost crying out at the feeling of fullness. Both my hands cling to his arm that’s stretched over my body so he can reach between my legs.
“Yes, I understand the urgency of the matter,” he says, annoyed.
I can feel the muscles in his arm shift as he pumps his fingers in and out of me, working them in and out in a slow, steady rhythm, stroking my clit with his thumb. I can’t help but arch into him — wanting more, needing more.
I squirm and let out a whimper, and his fingers immediately stop. He shoots me a warning look. I bite down on my bottom lip and try to focus on keeping quiet, but it’s like he’s doing it on purpose, because he goes back to playing with me.
He’s teasing me, drawing out the pleasure until I’m almost begging for release. The car is suddenly too hot. My head is spinning with need. I move my hips in time with his fingers, heat pooling low in my belly. I’m so close, so achingly—
“— Close to closing the deal.”
The sound of his voice on the phone fades into the background as he picks up the pace, his fingers moving faster, his touch more insistent.
I close my eyes and let out another whimper, unable to hold back any longer.
And then, just as I’m about to tip over the edge, Torren withdraws his hand again. I’m left gasping and whimpering, my body thrumming as he clenches his jaw, his face hovering above mine. I grit my teeth, my anger reflected in his eyes.
“Since you can’t keep that mouth of yours shut,” he says, “Let’s hear it.”
He must’ve ended the call. My breath comes in ragged gasps as he leans in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. “Let it all out.”
I suck in a breath as he slides his fingers inside me again. But he doesn’t move them.
“Beg for it, Freya,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Beg me to make you come.”
I stubbornly keep my mouth shut, sliding my right hand between my legs to relieve the ache.
Snarling, Torren catches my arm, twisting it away. “This pussy is mine,” he says, “Mine to touch, to eat, to fuck.”
Scowling, I tug against his hold, but he doesn’t let up.
“If you ask nicely,” he says, “I’ll give you what you want.”
He likes it when I put up a fight.
He likes it even more when he wins.
I’m seething, but my high is slowly fading away and it’s driving me insane. I claw at his arm with both my hands, my body humming with need as I turn to him, my brows pulled together.
“Please,” I say, my voice little more than a whisper. “Please make me come.”
Torren’s gaze bleeds with satisfaction, and he moves his fingers so fast inside me that I grow dizzy.
And then it happens.
I reach the crest and tumble over the edge, my body shuddering with the force of my orgasm. I cry out, my fingers digging into the corded muscle of his arm. His name is on my lips, a prayer and a plea and a thank you all at once.
He keeps up with the lazy thrust of his fingers, and I squirm from the stimulation, my body trembling with the aftershocks of the orgasm. I sink into his lap, panting and breathless as I ride out the waves of pleasure.
“. . . Sir?”
My breath stops.
He didn’t end the call.
He didn’t even mute it.
My cheeks flame.
Torren pulls his fingers out of me and to his mouth, sucking them off before he picks up his phone, completely unbothered.
“Had to take care of something,” he says, “Continue.”
The person on the other end mutters something in response.
“It’ll be done,” Torren says.
And then he actually does end the call.
My mind is addled. I want to snap at him for not cutting the call sooner, but I’m still coming down from the high, and I can’t think clearly.
He pockets his phone then shifts to leave.
I lift up from the seat, frowning at him. “Where are you going?”
“Vacation’s over,” he says, his voice clipped and business-like. “I have work to do.”
Memory of the flash drive dawns on me. There’s an important meeting for acquisition deal scheduled for today. I know he won’t miss it, but I make an attempt to stall him anyway.
“People vacation after their wedding,” I say, “Not before.”
His gaze is empty. “We never did things the right way.”
The past few days, I’ve been trying to convince myself that my fears are baseless. That Papa will do as he says, and I’ll get out of Torren’s clutches without having to bear his wrath. But there’s no time.
The wedding is tomorrow.
If my father wants to make his move, he’ll do it now.
Torren moves to open the door.
“Wait,” I breathe.
He pauses. I climb onto him, straddling him as I clutch onto his shirt with both hands.
I know that it’s useless and futile, and all I’m doing is delaying the inevitable, but I can’t help it.
His eyes narrow. There’s a hardness in his gaze that wasn’t there before.
His length nudges against my thigh. I swallow. I should tell him the truth. I should ask for more time.
“I—”
His phone buzzes again, and his jaw twitches as he answers it. “What.”
There’s a faint sound of Luca on the other end.
“Yes, I’ll fucking be there,” Torren says, “I know.”
He cuts the call and gives me a cursory glance.
“If it’s about the wedding,” he says, “My opinion hasn’t changed. You’ll be my wife by this time tomorrow.”
His hands come up to settle on my hips, but it’s only so he can nudge me off his lap. Numb and pliant, I watch as he opens the car door and steps out, walking to the elevator.
I lay back down across the backseat, the space bigger and colder without him. I stare up at the car roof.
It’s killing me to keep what I did from him, but telling him will ruin everything. It’ll alert him, give him time to act, and he’ll never willingly let me go. He’s made that much clear.
And now that I’ve let him put his mouth on mine, now that I’ve inadvertently admitted that I like him — that I care about him, he’ll never understand why I chose to betray him.
I’m so horribly confused, because a part of me doesn’t want him to let me go. A part of me wants him to keep me.
That’s fucked up, right? It has to be fucked up.
I was supposed to hate him. I did hate him. I don’t know when things changed. When I became the punchline of some cosmic joke.
I’m not built for marriage. I’m not built to crave anything the way I crave him. He’s uprooting everything I stand for, turning a mirror in on my deepest, darkest desires, and all I can do is stand by helplessly and watch.
Time seems to drag, and I don’t realize I’ve zoned out until I feel a rough touch lifting my ankle, followed by a sharp sting on my calf.
My eyes shoot open, and I find the car door open, Torren setting down my leg, amusement in his eyes. Did he just bite me?
I frown up at him. He’s freshly showered, and the scent of his cologne permeates the air of the car.
He lines of his black suit strain as he comes up over me, his hand digging into the leather on either side of my head.
“You smell like sex, and it’s driving me crazy,” he breathes, his gaze dark. “Makes me want to fuck you again.”
The leather seats creak beneath us as he shifts his weight, leaning in closer to me. His breath is warm as it spreads over the crests of my cheeks, pupils dilated as they wash over my face.
And then, without warning, he dips his head and kisses me, his mouth hot and hungry.
He tastes like freshly squeezed orange juice. I kiss him back, sucking on his tongue, but just as my hands come up to touch his face, he draws away, ducking out of the Mustang.
“I’ll be back soon,” he says.
Tucking his hands into his pockets, he gives me one last look before he turns, heading to his Audi.
I should stop him. Tell him that he shouldn’t be so nonchalant. So casual. But the words get stuck in my throat, and in the end, I just sit up in the seat and draw my knees to my chest as I watch him leave.
As he drives away, I can’t help but feel a sense of dread settle in the pit of my stomach. The fear that grips me is real, and it’s suffocating.
Somehow, I gather up enough energy to drag myself out of the car and walk to the elevator. In the apartment, I climb up the stairs and pull off my shirt, stepping into the shower.
The water cascades over my body, soothing my muscles and easing the tension in my shoulders. I lather soap over my skin, and take a deep breath, trying to clear my mind.
But no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the memory of his arms around me, his lips on mine and his tongue in my mouth. It makes me dizzy, and I step out the shower, wrapping a towel around my body.
When I walk out the shower into the bedroom, I find Giulia waiting for me, holding up my phone, exasperation painted on her face. “This thing — it won’t stop ringing!”
Heart beating fast, I take the phone from her and glance feverishly at the Unknown caller ID. I hesitate for a few seconds before answering.
As soon as I do, my sister’s voice rushes through the receiver.
“Freya,” Ana says, “Oh, finally. Freya, please, something’s wrong.”
My heart pumps faster. “Ana, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says, “I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Just—they’ve locked me up in a safe house and they won’t let me leave.”
I frown. “What? What’s going on?”
“Whatever information Papa asked you to get,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper, “Did you give it to him?”
“I . . .” I say, my voice shaky as I meet Giulia’s gaze. She looks away, going back to stripping the sheets off the bed.
“Did you give it to him, Freya?!” Ana exclaims.
“Yes,” I breathe, “Yes, I gave it to him. In exchange, he promised that he wouldn’t try to get you married to anyone. And that he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Ana groans. “God, Freya, how could you take his word for it?”
I shrink into myself. “He’s never lied to me before.”
“Frey, listen to me,” she says, “Papa is going to murder Torren.”
My heart turns to ice in my chest. “What?”
No.
“And then he’s going to marry me off to some fifty-year-old Russian oligarch,” she says, “It’ll make him the king of New York. He’ll be untouchable. He’s keeping me here so I can’t run.”
I shake my head. “No. That can’t possibly be—”
“You need to do something,” she says, “You need to stop him. I can’t leave here, and they’re going to find out that I stole a phone soon—”
The line dies.
I feel like throwing up. I lean over, breathing hard.
Giulia sets down the bedding, walking to my side. “Miss?”
Even after all this time, I’m in the dark. I don’t know the reason Torren wanted revenge. I don’t know anything that would mean that much to him.
But there’s one person I never asked.
I glance up at the housekeeper.
“Giulia,” I say, “I need you to tell me something, and I need you to be honest.”
Her brows furrow. “Si. What is it?”
I swallow. “Do you know who Sof is?”
Her eyes widen, and she pales a little as she spills out a shaky, “N-no.”
“You do!” I exclaim. “You do.”
She just shakes her head, looking down at the floor. “I am not allowed—”
“Giulia, please,” I beg, reaching for her hand and clasping it in both of mine. “Please. I think . . . I think Torren might be in danger. I need to know.”
Giulia’s hesitation stretches for another moment. Worry lines crease her forehead, but she must register the desperation in my voice, because she relents.
“Sofia. . .” she says, “She . . . she was Mr Costa’s sister.”
Sister? I frown. “I thought he didn’t have a sister.”
“No,” she says, “You do not understand. Mr Costa’s mamma — she passed away while giving birth to the baby. Her Papa . . . he says the baby died that day with his wife. He says the girl killed her mother.”
There’s a spark of anger inside me. Not only did Salvatore not acknowledge his own daughter, but he blamed an infant for her mother’s death.
“Mr Costa,” Giulia says, “He raised the girl. From the time she was a baby. He bathed her, fed her, clothed her. He read to her, he did her hair. Until she was old enough to do it herself.”
My eyes widen as I realize — the reason Torren knows how to braid hair, the reason he knows how to cook. It was for her. His baby sister. I blink as tears prick at my eyes.
“He came to me the first time she bled,” she says, “For help. For. . . come se dice . . .” Her brows furrow as she tries to find the right word. “Advice. Poor girl had no mamma, no? And her papa . . .” She clicks her tongue. “He was no help.”
The image makes my heart bleed.
“Where is she?” I ask. “Sofia?”