Page 64 of The Serpent's Bride
Steamswallowedtheshowerin thick white waves, turning the black marble walls slick and hazy around me. Water thundered against my skin, hot enough to redden it, but it did nothing to cool the ache under my ribs. Or the one beneath them, making my rock hard dick stand to attention.
I braced one palm flat against the tile and dropped my head forward, eyes shut tight, water running down the back of my neck and over the sharp lines of my chest. The scent of expensive soap and steam filled the air, clean and masculine and utterly useless against the memory of Chiara Ventura.
Because she was everywhere. In my head. In my blood. Under my fucking skin.
I could still feel her trembling beneath my hands when I took her hair down. Still hear those uneven little breaths every time my fingers brushed her neck. Soft. Frightened. Confused. Wanting.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.
My fist wrapped around my cock before I could stop myself. Hard. Painfully hard.
The image hit me: Chiara beneath me on silk sheets, blonde hair spread everywhere like spilled gold. Those blue eyes glossy with tears and fury while she begged me not to stop touching her.
Please…
The memory of her voice dragged low through my spine. I pumped myself slowly at first, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Water slid over my shoulders and down my arm, dripping from my fist as I stroked myself harder.
Pathetic.
I hadn’t lost control over a woman in years.
Women usually wanted things from me. Power. Money. Status. A dangerous thrill. They spread their legs before I even spoke to them half the time. But not her. Chiara fought me for every inch.
And somehow that only made me want her more.
I could still remember the way her pulse fluttered under my fingers. The way her lips parted when I praised her. The way her body softened for half a second before she realized what she was doing and snapped those walls back up again.
My fist tightened. I imagined pinning her beneath me properly this time. Those tiny wrists trapped over her head. Her soft thighs spread wide while I forced her to take every inch of me slowly.
She’d cry first. Not from pain. From the sheer overwhelming intensity of it. Because Chiara felt everything too deeply. Fear. Anger. Shame. Want. Especially want.
And God, I wanted to hear what she sounded like when she stopped hiding it.
A rough groan tore from my throat as I stroked myself faster, water splashing against the marble in uneven bursts. My breathing thickened, chest flexing hard as tension coiled tighter and tighter inside me.
I pictured her begging again. Not for freedom. For my cum.
That did it. Release slammed through me violently, filthy and hot, my head falling forward against the tile as I cursed under my breath. My muscles stayed tight long after it faded, shame curling cold and ugly through the aftermath.
I stared at the black marble beneath my hand while water continued pouring around me.
Jesus Christ. One girl was all it took. One stubborn, infuriating, beautiful girl and I was jerking myself off in the shower like some desperate fucking teenager.
Pathetic.
I shut the water off hard enough for the last splash to echo through the bathroom. Cold control settled back over me piece by piece while I dressed. Dark slacks. Black button-down. Gold watch. Gun holstered at my waist. Armor in place.
By the time I adjusted my cufflinks, my face gave nothing away again.
The phone vibrating on the counter irritated me, because I knew it would be Sergio on the other end, probably with more scathing remarks about my wife-to-be. I answered anyway. “What?”
A low chuckle crackled through the speaker. “Good morning to you too, boss.”
I walked barefoot across the penthouse kitchen, the cold marble grounding under my feet. Morning light spilled through the towering glass windows, pale silver over black stone countertops and gold fixtures.
“You called for a reason,” I said flatly.
“I did.” I could hear the smirk in his voice already. “But first, I need confirmation you survived the night playing husband.”
