Page 60 of Beautiful Villain
When I finally looked at her properly, there was no humor left to hide behind.No charm.No distance.Only the weight of certainty settling deep in my chest.
Whatever this was—whatever we were standing on the edge of—we were already far past the point of no return.
I stopped moving.
The decision landed fully formed, and before either of us could reconsider it, I turned her by the arms until she was facing the glass.The world outside stared back at us—dark hills, scattered lights, the quiet indifference of distance.
“Put your hands on the glass,” I said.
My voice came out low, an uncrushed command.
She glanced back at me, uncertainty flickering for a single heartbeat.Then she caught my expression in the reflection—my jaw set, my eyes dark with desire—and whatever hesitation she’d had vanished.She turned back to the window and lifted her arms, palms flattening against the cool surface.
The sight of her like that tightened something deep in my chest.
I stepped closer and placed my hand at the small of her back, grounding her.She arched instinctively, breath hitching as I pressed her forward just enough to change the angle of her body, to make her aware of exactly how close I was standing behind her.
“Gianni,” she breathed.
I didn’t answer.
“The chef,” she added softly, as if the reminder might pull us back from the brink.
“Won’t come in uninvited,” I said, my voice steady even as everything else in me was anything but.
I let my hand slide low, slow and unhurried, tracing the line of her spine before drifting down over her hips.Her dress was soft beneath my fingers, the fabric shifting as I moved, gathering slightly as my hands followed the curve of her thighs.
She shivered.
I leaned in just enough that my mouth hovered near her ear, my breath warm against her skin.
“This stops the moment you say it does,” I said quietly.“Do you understand?”
Her answer came without words—just a subtle nod, a deeper breath, her fingers flexing against the glass.
“I’m going to lift your dress now,” I told her.
“Yes,” she breathed.
I lifted the hem of her dress slowly.She was wearing black lace underneath, delicate and unmistakably not something she would’ve chosen on her own.
I knew that because I’d been there.When we went shopping, I’d watched her hover at the safe edges, eyes darting past anything too bold.I’d been the one to tell the saleslady to add more—to slip in the things Mikayla was too shy to ask for herself.
Seeing her in them now made something dark and satisfied curl in my chest.
I hooked my fingers into the waistband and slid them down her legs.They dropped to the floor with practiced ease, and I told her to step out of them.She did, cheeks already warming, eyes fixed on the glass like she couldn’t decide whether to look away or watch.
I bent down and picked them up, taking my time.When I straightened, I met her gaze in the reflection—caught her watching as I lifted the lace, bringing it close, breathing in the scent of her arousal.
Her reaction was instant.A flush bloomed across her face, crept down her neck.Her lashes fluttered, lips parting as embarrassment and something darker tangled together.
I didn’t look away.
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” I rasped.“That scent?It’s mine now.”
My eyes locked on hers.“If I could keep it—trap it somewhere permanent—I would.Because nothing has ever felt more dangerous… or more addictive.”
Her breathing broke into soft, uneven pants as she watched me linger—caught between mortification and want—every shallow breath giving her away while I held the moment just long enough to make it burn.
