Chapter 9 #2
My arms loosen across my chest. My fingers uncurl from my elbows.
I look at this man standing in my apartment offering me a marriage on paper and a protection I didn't ask for.
I want to say no because a contract is exactly what I'm running from.
Another man deciding what happens to my body...
no thanks. Another arrangement I didn't initiate.
But this man's hands are the only ones that ever made me safe. And he's looking at me right now with those penetrating eyes, standing in the warm amber of my string lights with his sleeves rolled and his tie gone and his heart on his face, and I am so tired of being brave alone.
"If I say yes." My voice is barely a whisper. "What happens?"
"You sign tonight." He taps the leather folio on the counter. "I've had it drawn up."
"Tonight."
"Lorenzo isn't going to wait, Sloane. And neither am I."
I look at the red heel in the box. The shoe I lost running from him. The shoe he kept. The shoe he carried to my door.
He cares. But why?
“Why do you care?”
“You’re the second person to ask me that tonight.”
“And?”
For the first time, my father’s best friend steps into my personal space, gathers me in his arms and lowers his lips to mine.
He knowingly kisses me for me. His warm, firm lips find the dip in my shoulder. Teeth scrape along the tender flesh and I melt into him. My lashes fall closed and I mentally capture this moment for the dark days I know will come.
I know when to read actions and this man is all about motion.
Massimo lifts his mouth from my skin. Those firm lips brush over my cheek until his mouth is back on the shell of my ear. “Ahh, Sloane. Trouble has found you. Will you let me help you?”
Raw heat explodes through me.
No. That’s wrong. Not explode. What is happening inside me is so much more chaotic and all-consuming as a result of those few words whispered to me.
"Okay." And this time when I speak there’s no controlling the wavering sound of my voice.
His exhale is sharp. Relief. Like he was braced for a no and my yes took the ground out from under him. "Okay?"
I nod instead of using my words.
The edges of Massimo’s lips coil into a dangerous smile. He steps back, slowly releasing me. But his hands linger on my bare arms a moment longer before dropping to his sides.
He opens the leather folio and pulls the contract free.
Three pages. Cream-colored paper, heavyweight, and expensive between my fingers.
He spreads them across my kitchen counter and his handwriting fills the margins where he's annotated clauses in black ink, precise and slanted and offensively attractive because apparently even his penmanship has to be sexy.
Get it together, Whitmore.
I pick up page one and scan the first paragraph while he stands on the other side of my counter looking distractingly handsome.
He opens my cabinet, finds the whiskey I keep behind the coffee mugs, and pours two glasses without asking where anything is.
I guess because that is where my father keeps his stash too and Massimo figured I’d do the same.
Mine sits untouched because if I add alcohol to this situation, I will sign the contract and climb the man without reading a single thing and that is no bueno. I need to at least pretend I'm a woman who reads the fine print before she detonates her entire life.
"Hmm. Clause four," I say, tapping the paper. "My obedience. That's a broad term. You could order me to use a litter box and howl at the moon for all I know."
Massimo lifts his glass, takes a slow pull of whiskey, and sets it down on my counter without breaking eye contact. "It's intentionally broad and I don’t like cats. Now howling at the moon… that could be kinky."
I brush his musings aside when I see he’s not taking me seriously. "So you could, theoretically, order me to do anything."
He lifts a heavy shoulder with a shrug of what I take as indifference. "Theoretically."
"Like make me sit across from my father at Sunday dinner and pretend I don't know what your mouth tastes like."
He sets his glass down slowly, the crystal clicking against the marble. "That would require a level of self-control neither of us has demonstrated so far."
"So we skip Sunday dinners. I don’t think he wants to see me anytime soon anyway."
"Maybe. I don’t think complete silence is good for either of you. I could sit next to you instead of across from you and keep my hand on your thigh under the table while your father says grace."
My face burns. My thighs press together under the counter and I grip the edge of the paper hard enough to crease the corner. "That is not in the contract."
"Consider it a verbal amendment."
Now I know he’s teasing me.
I huff out a sigh of frustration.
“The pink in your cheeks makes them kissable.” He moves around the counter and takes my face in his hands. The scratch of his beard grazes my cheek as his lips press over the heated skin. His body heat wraps around me and for a moment I forget what we are doing.
“Massimo–”
“Did you intentionally message me on your birthday,” he husks, pressing his forehead against mine.
My inner devilish angel sits up and takes notice. Oh, wouldn’t he like to know?
My lips pull into a grin. His grip on me loosens a fraction, and he caresses my pulse point with the pad of his thumb.
I turn my face up to his. “Take me to bed and I’ll whisper the answer in your ear,” I offer in a sexy voice I never imagined using on Massimo Santoro.
“I want to and I don't know how long I can control myself but I have to protect you first.” His dark, husky voice moves over my senses like rolling smoke across warm silk. Smooth, flowing and the most erotic sound I’ve heard.
The pulsing between my legs deepens.
He steps back and taps the contract. “Please continue, tesoro. This is important.”
I flip to page two, mostly to give my body time to cool down. The sounds of the evening, the smells of the candle and the feel of his body warmth caressing mine all bury themselves in my memory.
"Clause seven. I'm required to reside in your penthouse for the duration of the contract."
"Naturally as husband and wife."
"Your penthouse has one bedroom."
"It has three."
"And which one would be mine?"
He leans his impressive weight forward on my counter, both hands flat on the marble, and the movement pulls his shirt tight across his shoulders, the fabric straining against muscle. His calculating eyes hold mine with a patience that shouldn't be legal on a man this dangerous.
"That depends entirely on you. Do you want to sleep in the room I turned into a gym? The cold spare room? Or in my arms as husband and wife with all the benefits?" he offers in a deep voice that drips with a none too subtle invitation.
There isn’t a part of my body that doesn’t hit two thousand degrees with that visual in my head.
Oh, fuck me.
No, Sloane. Focus. Read the fine print. You are a business owner. You have a boutique. You understand contracts. Do not get distracted by the fringe benefits.
I clear my throat. "Clause nine." My voice comes out steadier than it has any right to. "Exclusivity. No outside romantic relationships for either party during the contract period."
His shoulder lifts. "Standard provision."
"For a marriage of convenience?"
"For any arrangement involving my ring on your finger. I’m the only one who gets to taste you, kiss you and make you howl at the moon." The humor glittering in his eyes has my lips tipping up in a smile.
“Touché.” I purse my lips. "But your ring isn't on my finger yet."
"Yet."
He says it like it's already done. Like the ink is dry and the ceremony is scheduled and my name is already Santoro.
"Keep reading so we can get to the signing part."
I throw a hand up. “Hold up. I want to hear you say it too.”
Arrogance rolls over his handsome expression. “That my body will only belong to you and you will be the only one pleasuring me for the duration of the contract.” As he speaks he’s moving back to my side of the counter.
“Yes.”
He steps in front of me. He tilts my face with the edge of a finger and I don’t fight his gentle instructions.
Claiming lips fall over mine and my thoughts fade.
I arch into him, rising to the tips of my toes.
I pull back, breaking our kiss. Our eyes connect just before I trail my lips along his jawline. Between us, his shaft grows thick.
“You want to hear I want you. That I need to have another taste of the forbidden Cinderella.”
He is not truly asking me so I wait for him to answer.
“Sloane Whitmore, I don’t know how I never stole you away from your castle long before now. I was blind, but I can finally see the princess in front of me and I am a hungry man.”
I hope to God he means those words because my heart absorbs every single one and locks them in a safe.
“Take me to bed, Massimo. I need you.”
His entire body tenses. “Not yet,” he begs against my lips. “I’m a selfish motherfucker, Sloane.” His hands move to grip my ass and I am hauled up his body in one fluid motion, the hem of my gown easily moving with me. The deep pitch of his voice lowers to a possessive husk.
“I’ve already taken more than I should and I’d do it again.” He slowly rocks his hips. There’s only the thin silk of my panties and the material of his pants between us. I can feel every rigid inch of his cock.
He slowly sets me back down and gently urges me toward the contract.
I keep reading, but he stays by my side.
Clause ten is financial protection for Harrison.
Clause eleven is security provisions, which I skim because the idea of bodyguards makes my stomach clench for reasons I refuse to examine right now.
Clause twelve is the dissolution terms: either party may terminate with thirty days' notice, all provisions remain enforceable through termination, all secrets kept in perpetuity.
"You've thought of everything," I have to admit.
He swallows whiskey before he says, "That's part of the job."
"Except clause thirteen."