Page 43 of When She Unravels
“To my bedroom.”
“We’re on a yacht.”
“I own the yacht. I lease it out to the Werners for the season.”
Why am I even surprised? The haze of my arousal lifts a tiny bit. “Do you ever get tired of showing off?”
He guides me across the deck, his hand placed firmly on the small of my back. “Never.”
By the time we get to the door of what must be his room, I’ve managed to get some of my bearings back. I can still walk away before this escalates any further. “I don’t think we should do this,” I say, even though there is zero conviction behind my words. Excitement buzzes under my skin at the thought of what he might do to me in that bedroom.
He unlocks the door with a swipe of a card and holds it open for me with his palm. His gaze melts me from the inside out.
“Get inside, Ale.”
This is it. The moment of truth. Once that door closes behind me, I know I won’t leave.
His eyes are trained on my face. Warm hazel orbs made nearly black by his enlarged irises. Inside of all that darkness is a spark. A bright candle flame that burns for me.
I latch on to that imagery and convince myself that I’m the one in control here.
And then I step across the threshold.
CHAPTER13
VALENTINA
Damiano flickson the lights and his bedroom comes into focus. There’s a wide desk, a king-sized bed, a bar cart in one corner, and two upholstered armchairs placed by a small coffee table. Its sophisticated, tidy, and very male. Nothing is flashy, but it’s clear that every piece of furniture and every scrap of textile in here has been meticulously chosen by a professional.
I gravitate to the carved wooden desk. “This is gorgeous,” I say as I run my fingers along the glass surface that protects the designs.
Damiano pours two glasses of wine and hands one to me. His eyes drop to the desk. “It’s one of my favorite possessions. My sister got this made for me by an artisan outside of Napoli.” A rare softness creeps into his expression.
The image of little Damiano holding the toddler in his arms squeezes at my heart. “You’re close.”
“Yes,” he says.
I like that he’s fond of his sister. It’s a glimpse at a part of his life I haven’t seen before, and it makes me feel closer to him. If I told him how much I missed my sisters, I have a suspicion he’d understand.
He clears his throat as if to dispel any lingering thoughts and takes a sip of his wine. Everything about this man is attractive, down to the way his Adam’s apple moves as he swallows. Heat blankets my skin again. I down half of my glass in one go and cradle it with both of my palms.
The temperature rises further when he places his glass down on the desk and squares his body toward me. He lifts his hand to my face and traces my jaw with his thumb. “How’s the wine?”
“Very good,” I say.
“I know you’ll taste even better.” His voice drags over the place between my legs like a silk tie.
I have a serious weakness, I realize. After Lazaro’s disinterest, the idea of a powerful, gorgeous, sane man wanting me is like catnip. I want to believe so badly that Damiano is affected by me, but there’s a needy voice in the back of my head that craves more convincing.
“You hated me,” I whisper, thinking back to how he wouldn’t give me a single break in that first week following us meeting.
Damiano pries the glass out of my hands and places it beside his. “I never hated you.” He moves his palm to the back of my neck. “I doubted you. I thought your stubborn strength was an act, but it’s not. It’s real.” The tip of his nose traces my cheek bone. “You are magnificent.”
My God, if only he knew who I really was… He’s wrong about me being strong, yet he speaks with such conviction that I almost believe him. It’s like he can shape me into someone else by his willpower alone.
He moves closer, pressing the length of his body against mine and enveloping me in his heady scent. When his lips find mine, I moan into his mouth. Everything is languid and hot, like an erotic fever dream.
I’m not wearing a bra. His palms find my bare breasts under my shirt, and the sensation of his calloused thumbs dragging over my nipples turn them into hard points. He twists them lightly, then grunts when I start to buck against him, desperate to ease the pressure building between my legs.
