Chapter Thirty-Three
Miranda
I stood just inside the doorway, watching while he moved about the room as if nothing was wrong. He appeared perfectly at ease, each step deliberate, his face a controlled mask betraying nothing of the storm that had only recently passed between us.
But I knew differently.
The second the vehicle pulled away from Mr. Sinclair’s estate, I felt a chill snake its way down my spine and settle deep into my bones.
Gone was the polite, concerned, gentle mood from the breakfast table, only to be replaced with tense silence and a threat so real, I could actually taste it.
The atmosphere had shifted palpably, tension pressing in around us, leaving me with the undeniable certainty that the calm was only a fragile veneer over something far more volatile.
On the entire ride back, he sat next to me.
Okay, maybe ‘next’ was the wrong preposition.
Truthfully, if he had been any closer, he would have been under my skin.
The man abandoned all pretense of politeness, opting instead to assert himself with an unmistakable claim.
He refused to release my hands, his grip unyielding, one of his palms holding each of mine.
Forced to sit at an awkward, uncomfortable angle—certainly not the safest position—I realized he simply didn’t care.
He sat there silently, his thumb drawing gentle circles on my wrist, never uttering a word.
It was clear he was waiting for privacy, biding his time until we were alone behind closed doors to say what he would not in front of others.
Every time I tried to pull away, his fingers tightened, sending me a clear message that he was not going to let me escape again.
So, for an entire hour, I sat in the back seat of the SUV, quiet and captive beside him, his hold never relenting.
When the vehicle finally stopped, I expected—hoped—he would finally let go and allow me to leave.
But again, I was mistaken.
Instead of freedom, I was abruptly pulled from the back seat, hoisted over his shoulder with little warning. A sharp sting landed across my backside where his hand had struck, punctuating his announcement to the others: “I’ll be upstairs educating my wife. It might take all night.”
Luca chuckled at the display, and Cesar offered an understanding smile before replying, “Take all the time you need, brother. We have everything handled from here.”
Massimo didn’t wait for a reply. One moment we were still in the parking garage; the next, I was being roughly manhandled—his grip strong and impatient—as he carried me up the stairs.
The instant we crossed the threshold into his room, he dropped me onto the floor, then closed the door with a sharp slam before locking it.
I watched silently as he strode to his dresser and, with calm precision, removed his watch, wallet, keys, and phone, placing them carefully into the marble bowl atop his dresser.
Massimo’s movements were methodical, each action intentional, as if he needed to collect himself before turning to face me.
The silence between us stretched, heavy and expectant, the tension in the room thick enough to feel on my skin.
I watched his back, bracing for whatever came next, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
With deliberate movements, he shrugged out of his jacket and let it drop to the floor, as though the very fabric offended him or had become too restrictive to tolerate a moment longer.
The urgency in his actions sent a ripple of apprehension through me.
Without pausing, he loosened his tie, slipping it off with a practiced flick of his wrist, and then swiftly unfastened his belt.
Each discarded item seemed to shed a layer of the carefully constructed composure he had worn until now.
Left in only his fitted black shirt and tailored trousers, he paused just long enough to unbutton the top three buttons of his shirt, exposing a hint of the ink that decorated his throat and collarbone—a subtle yet unmistakable sign of the shift in mood.
He crossed the room with measured steps, choosing the chair by the window rather than the bed, a clear indication that he wished to control the conversation that would follow.
Lowering himself into the chair, he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and raked both hands through his thick, dark hair in a gesture that spoke of brewing frustration or perhaps an attempt to steady himself.
The motion drew my eyes, and as if sensing my gaze, he looked up.
When our eyes met, his—stormy and blue as sapphire—held mine without wavering.
The intensity in his stare made my breath catch; my throat worked as I swallowed hard, unable to disguise my reaction to the weight of his attention.
Massimo’s voice cut through the heavy silence. “Do you trust me?” The words were simple, but loaded with meaning, demanding an answer I wasn’t sure I could give.
I blinked, taken aback. “What?” My reply was barely more than a whisper, uncertainty coloring my tone.
He growled, a low sound of impatience, clearly unwilling to move forward until I responded. The tension between us intensified, pressing in from all sides.
I couldn’t tell where he intended to take this conversation.
In fact, I was fairly certain I didn’t want to know.
Yet something in his demeanor held me captive, refusing to let me turn away.
The longer I stood in silence, the more agitated he became.
His jaw clenched, and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the armrest of the chair.
Each physical sign made his frustration clear, and I realized the answer mattered far more to him than I’d originally thought.
The air between us grew denser with each passing second, my nerves a tangled mess beneath my skin.
I opened my mouth, but no words came at first, only the sound of my shaky breath.
I forced myself to meet his gaze, searching his expression for any hint of softness—anything to cling to in the tempest brewing between us.
“I asked you a question, Miranda. I expect an answer.”
My throat tightened as I tried to form the response he wanted, torn between the instinct to protect myself and the strange, magnetic compulsion to trust him despite everything.
“I... I don’t know,” I managed at last, my voice unsteady but honest. The vulnerability in my admission seemed to echo in the charged silence, each heartbeat a thunderous reminder of how much I was risking by even daring to consider trust.
Massimo’s expression flickered, a storm passing through his eyes before resolve settled there.
He drew in a slow, measured breath, as though weighing my answer and everything it might mean.
“Then let me prove it to you,” he said, his voice lower now, threaded with something that sounded deceptive, a little sinister, almost like a warning.
The moment hung suspended, fragile and electric, as we both stood on the precipice of something neither of us could predict.
“Strip.”
The word echoed through the room, freezing me in place. Instinctively, I retreated, my back pressed hard against the door as my eyes widened in shock. The command was stark, stripping away any illusion of control I thought I still possessed. For a moment, the only sound was my shallow breathing.
His tone sharpened, cutting across my hesitation.
“I will not repeat myself, wife. In this room, I am in charge.” The title—wife—fell heavy between us, a stark reminder of the power dynamic at play.
His authority was unmistakable, and as his gaze held mine, I realized the choice before me would define what happened next.
With trembling hands, I slipped out of my shoes, the soft thud of them hitting the floor sounding far louder than it should have in the charged silence between us.
I hesitated only briefly before shrugging off my coat, letting it fall from my shoulders.
His gaze was unyielding, fixed on me, and I could feel the weight of his attention in every movement I made.
Swallowing hard, I reached for the hem of my sweater and pulled it over my head, letting it flutter to the ground without a second thought.
My breath came in uneven bursts, the air thick around us as I dared a glance at him—he still hadn’t looked away, his eyes tracking my every move with a focus that sent shivers racing over my skin.
As my hands went around my back to remove my bra, he growled, and I stopped instantly.
His eyes hardened, daring me to defy him.
With shaky hands, I reached for the button of my jeans.
My fingers fumbled for a moment, betraying my uncertainty, but I managed to unfasten them.
The metallic click sounded impossibly loud in the room’s tense silence.
Slowly, I slid the denim down my legs, feeling the rough fabric brush against my skin as I stepped out of them, leaving them pooled at my feet.
Every movement was deliberate, each small action reminding me just how exposed and vulnerable I was becoming under his steadfast gaze.
Standing there in only my undergarments, I felt exposed, laid bare before him.
The vulnerability was palpable—the chill of the room settled on my skin as I held my breath, watching him rise from where he sat and begin to stalk toward me with slow, deliberate steps.
Every move he made was measured, purposeful, and my heart raced as the distance closed between us.
When he was close enough, his scent enveloped me—warm and clean, edged sharply with notes of soap and skin, and something darker lurking beneath the surface.
It wasn’t cologne or perfume, but something undeniably his, familiar and intimate.
It unsettled me, and my knees threatened to buckle beneath the weight of the moment.
He pressed one arm against the door, effectively caging me in, while the other hand traced lightly over my face. The touch sent tremors through my body. “Are you scared, wife?” he asked, voice soft but unmistakably dominant, his words wrapping around me.
My lips parted in response, but fear and anticipation rendered me mute; I barely managed to shake my head. His smile was knowing, wickedly gentle, and his thumb brushed my bottom lip as he leaned in, whispering, “You will be.” The promise lingered in the air, heavy with both warning and invitation.
The certainty in his words drew a gasp from me, and that was all the permission he needed. He grabbed my face firmly, and his kiss was rough, erasing any hope I had that he might be gentle or understanding. The lines of power were clear: he was in charge, and I was left to surrender or resist.
Breathless, I broke away just enough to search his face, desperate for something—reassurance, softness, anything. But as our eyes met, I found only one thing reflected back at me.
Control.
“Now for the rules,” he said, his voice low and unwavering. He kissed me again, this time deeper, hungrier—his tongue searching for mine as he fought for dominance. He claimed control as if it were second nature, each movement a testament to his mastery of the moment.
It was then that I understood.
I never stood a chance.
Because he was... the wicked master of this game.