Chapter 10 #2
"Lorenzo Ferraro accessed Sloane's Wicker Park apartment. I need to know how he got in, and who he sent. Pull the street cameras, the building entrance, everything. And I need new locks on her apartment door within the hour."
"On it." Luca doesn't ask questions.
I hang up and turn to Sloane. She's standing at the counter with her arms wrapped around herself, fingers gripping her elbows. Her blue eyes burn with a fury, and beneath it the raw edge of violation. A man was in her space without her permission and the invasion of it must be unbearable.
"He's sending a message," she says. "He's telling me he can get to me."
"He can't. Not here."
"He got into my apartment, Massimo. He went through my things. My closet. My clothes." Her voice cracks on the last word and I watch her pull it back together with a visible effort that makes my chest hurt. "That's a message. A violation."
Yes. It is. And the man who did it just made the last mistake of his professional career.
I cross the kitchen, my bare feet quiet on the hardwood. My hand finds her jaw, my palm warm against her cold skin, and I tilt her face up until her blue eyes meet mine. I feel the tension in her jaw under my fingers, the clench of muscle and bone, and I hold her there until her breathing slows.
"Nothing touches you. Not Lorenzo. Not his men. Not anyone." My thumb traces her cheekbone, feeling the dampness where a tear escaped. "You are in my home. Under my name. Under my protection. And I will dismantle anyone who makes you feel unsafe in any space you occupy. Do you understand me?"
Her jaw loosens under my palm. Her eyes search mine and I let her look.
Let her see the parts I usually keep behind the professional mask.
The rage. The possessiveness. The certainty that I will burn Lorenzo Ferraro's entire operation to ash before I let him put his hands on her or her belongings again.
"I understand." Her voice is quiet. "But I'm still angry."
"Good. Hold onto that." I brush my thumb across her bottom lip, feeling the wax of her lipstick and the warmth of her breath against my skin. "But right now I need you to look at me. Only me. Can you do that?"
Her chin lifts. Her shoulders pull back. Her blue eyes lock on mine and the tension fades behind a heat that has been building between us since she walked through my elevator doors.
I know because I feel the same burning heat.
"Yes."
I step back, take her hand and walk to the bedroom.
The city lights pour through the uncovered windows in pale blue and silver, the same light that painted her body the first night she was in this room.
I pull the leather armchair from the corner, the legs dragging across the hardwood with a low scrape.
I set it facing the foot of the bed. I sit down, unbutton my cuffs, and roll my sleeves before leaning back.
The leather is cool against my arms and the chair creaks under my weight as I settle.
"Come here."
She steps close, backlit by the warm light from the kitchen. The cream sweater, the jeans, the bare feet, the cherry lipstick she put on for Onyx. She watches me from the threshold, reading my posture, reading the chair, reading the distance between us.
"Take off the sweater, tesoro."
A hunger replaces the tension in her eyes.
Her fingers find the hem. She pulls it over her head slowly, the fabric whispering against her skin as it lifts, and her blonde hair tumbles loose across bare shoulders.
No bra. Her breasts are bare, her nipples tightening in the cool air. My hands grip the armrests hard enough that the leather groans under my fingers because if I don't hold onto something I'm going to cross the room and put my mouth on her.
But not yet.
"Jeans."
She unbuttons them, the metal click loud in the quiet room. Slides them down her hips, her thighs, the denim dragging over her skin, and steps out of them. White silk panties cut low to reveal smooth skin just above the dip between her folds.
Fuck. Me.
The sight of her in nothing but white silk and cherry lipstick does something to my cock that I wasn't prepared for.
"Panties, tesoro. Take them off slowly. But don’t smudge the lipstick."
The corner of her brow lifts in defiance but her hands obey my command. "You're very bossy from that chair."
I like the hint of curiosity in her tone. It’s going to make what comes next fun.
"Clause four," I counter.
A breathless laugh escapes her and the sound loosens the tension in my ribs.
She steps close enough for me to touch, hooks her thumbs into the waistband and slides them down.
Steps out. Stands in front of me completely bare, her hair loose around her shoulders, her lips cherry red, the scar on her left forearm catching the pale window light.
Every instinct I have wants me on the street hunting Lorenzo. But she needs me here, and she comes first.
"Wait." I push to my feet, cross to the closet, and come back with the red heels she wore to my door the first night. The cherry leather glows warm in my hands as I set them on the floor in front of her.
She looks down at them. Looks at me. Her eyes glisten but she doesn't cry.
She steps into them. Buckles the ankle straps with fingers that don't shake, the tiny clasps clicking into place against her ankles.
I sit back in the chair.
Sloane Whitmore stands naked in red heels in my bedroom, the city glittering behind her through the floor-to-ceiling windows, moonlight tracing the curves of her shoulders and the dip of her waist and the long line of her legs above cherry leather.
I wasted a decade staring at contracts and legal briefs instead of looking at the woman and that is a loss I am going to spend the rest of this arrangement making up for.
"You're staring," she whispers.
"I'm seeing you." I grip the armrests. "Turn around."
She turns. Slowly. The heels shift her weight forward, lifting her calves, and I hear the faint click of the heel against the hardwood with each small movement.
I watch the curve of her spine, the dip at the small of her back, the way her hair falls between her shoulder blades in loose waves that catch the silver light.
My cock strains against my slacks and I don't adjust it.
I let the ache build because tonight isn't about what I need. It's about what she needs.
When she’s facing me again, I remind her of the truth. "You're safe here, Sloane. No one touches you in this room unless you want them to. And right now I want you to feel what it's like to be looked at by a man who sees you. All of you."
Her breath catches, a small, sharp intake that I hear across the room. Her shoulders drop. The tension she's been carrying since that box arrived begins to drain out of her body one muscle at a time.
"Sit on the edge of the bed, tesoro."
She sits. The mattress dips under her weight and the dark sheets pool around her hips. Her thighs press together, her hands grip the mattress edge, her blue eyes hold mine across six feet of bedroom.
I reach into the nightstand beside the chair. Pull out a small device, sleek and quiet, and hold it up so she can see it.
Her eyes widen. "Is that—"
"Yes. I ordered it this morning. And I control it." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "I'm going to tell you what to do. I'm going to watch you do it. And I'm not going to touch you until you ask me to. Understood?"
Her cheeks turn a lovely pink in the low light of my bedroom. "That seems cruel."
I bring my lips to her forehead, one last touch before we start. "Clause four," I remind her.
"I'm starting to regret signing that contract."
"No you're not."
She bites her bottom lip, her teeth pressing into the soft cherry-stained flesh. Her thighs part. "No. I'm not."
I press the vibrator into her hand and she takes it. I guide her next movements with my voice.
“Lie back for me and spread your legs wider.”
“That’s it. Beautiful. Now put your hand between your thighs. Show me. Spread your folds and show me what belongs to me.”
She follows every instruction with a compliance that has nothing to do with obedience and everything to do with trust. Her fingers move where I tell them, sliding through the slick heat of her pussy.
Her hips roll when I tell them to. The toy buzzes low against her skin where I tell her to hold it, the faint vibration humming through the quiet room, and her mouth falls open and her head tips back and the sounds she makes, raw and unguarded and rising, fill my bedroom and press against the windows.
"Look at me. Don't close your eyes."
She looks at me. Blue eyes blown wide, lips parted, her chest flushing pink from her collarbones to the swell of her breasts.
Her hand moves faster, her breathing ragged and sharp, each inhale catching in her throat.
The toy hums against her clit and I watch her thighs shake and her free hand twist into the dark sheet and her mouth form a word that might be my name.
"That's it. Let me see you."
"Massimo." Her voice breaks, raw and desperate. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Touch me. Please. I need your hands."
I'm out of the chair and between her thighs in two strides. My mouth covers hers and she tastes like wine and need and the salt of tears she didn't let fall.
She moans into me, her hands flying to my shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, pulling me down onto her.
I take the toy from her trembling hand and hold it against her while my mouth moves to her throat, tasting the flutter of her pulse against my lips, then her collarbone, then her breast where I drag my tongue across her nipple and feel her entire body arch off the mattress.