Page 43 of Ruthless Grace

The unspent rage of the port skirmish, the agonizing frustration of sleeping behind an unlocked connecting door, and the sheer, intoxicating sight of her defiance all crash together in my chest.

Before she can draw her next breath, I move.

My massive palm closes around her waist. I lift her straight off her feet, slamming her back against the edge of the cold steel examination table.

A sharp, breathless gasp rips from her throat. “Luca⁠—”

I don’t give her room to breathe. I crowd between her thighs, trapping her against the steel table. I grab both of her wrists in my right hand, pinning them over her head against the cold leather mat, her black diamond ring biting into my palm.

“Say that again,” I growl, my mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from her lips, my cedar-and-gunpowder scent completely swallowing her. “Tell me again what I can’t touch in my own house.”

Gia doesn’t scream. She doesn’t beg. She twists her wrists against my grip, her dark hair spilling across the sterile blue table, her body arching up to meet mine.

“Touch me and break your word,” she whispers against my mouth, her voice dripping with pure, razor-sharp provocation. “Put your hands on me, Valentino. Prove to me you’re just as weak as every other man in New Orleans.”

“I’m not weak, principessa,” I rasp against her throat. “I’m patient.”

I use my free hand to grab the hem of her dark silk skirt. In one smooth, ruthless pull, I hike the fabric up over her hips, exposing her pale, golden thighs and her midnight-silk lace to the harsh, blinding glare of the surgical lights.

Gia’s breath hitches violently. Her inner thighs quiver against my trousers as I step closer, pressing the thick ridge of my cock—stone-hard through my suit trousers—directly against her wet pussy.

She lets out a quiet, strangled moan, her eyes fluttering shut as the violent, grinding pressure hits her cunt.

“Look at me,” I command.

Her amber eyes snap open, burning with fury and raw, unfiltered lust.

I reach down, hooking my thumb into the lace at her waist, pulling the silk aside to expose her swollen, dripping pussy to the air. She is already drenched. Her hot, sweet nectar glistening against her skin in high-definition clarity under the surgical light.

“Look at you,” I growl, my thumb dragging through her wet slick, rubbing it directly over her swollen clit. “Dripping wet for a man you claim to hate. On cold steel. In my room.”

Gia arches her hips off the table with a desperate, ragged gasp, her wet cunt clamping around my thumb as I grind my hips forward, pressing my hard shaft heavily against her through the silk of her lace.

“Fuck,” she gasps, her throat exposed, her knuckles turning white where I hold her wrists pinned over her head. “Do it, Valentino. Break your own word. Prove to me you’re just as weak as every other man in this city.”

“Good girl,” I whisper against her ear, using the dark praise like a blade. “Daring me to destroy my own rules.”

I grind my hips down hard against her, sliding my cock against her wet slit in long, brutal, agonizing strokes. The friction is violent, intoxicating, and white-hot. I feel her entire body vibrating on the edge of a cliff, her pussy pulsing against my thumb, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps as she hovers on the brink of coming.

I pull my thumb back, lining the blunt head of my hard cock directly up against her dripping pussy. One push, and I could bury myself deep inside her. One push, and I could shatter her contract, take my wife on cold steel, and make her mine forever.

Gia holds her breath, her eyes locked on mine, her lips parted, waiting for the impact.

I stare down into her dark, blown-black eyes. I feel the violent hammering of her heart against her ribs.

Then, I smile a cold, ruthless smile.

I don’t push inside.

I abruptly step back, releasing her wrists, pulling my body away from the table.

Gia lets out a sharp, devastated gasp, her hips bucking against empty air, her body left flushed, trembling, drenched in sweat, and completely unraveled on the steel table.

“Luca...” she breathes, her voice a raw, ruined whisper.

I stand three feet away, entirely unbothered. I pull down my silk tie, adjust the lapels of my charcoal suit jacket, and smooth down my cuffs. I look down at my wife lying half-naked under my surgical lights, her silk dress hiked over her hips, her pussy dripping wet against the leather mat.

“You wrote a contract, principessa,” I say. “No physical contact without your explicit consent. Say the word and I stop.”