Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 39068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, not moving any closer to the bed.
“What, darling? Why not?”
“Because you don’t mean it.”
“No, I suppose I don’t,” he admits. “I am taunting you.” His gaze holds a challenge.
I meet it. I don’t know what it is about this man that makes me bold.
I was bold that night of my debutante ball when I demanded a drag from his cigarette.
I was bold when I took his hand and let him pull me into the supply closet for the most sinful kiss of my life.
Now, another surge of rebellion rises in me, and I drop my towel. “And I’m taunting you.”
The move has its desired effect.
Antonio’s gaze jerks to my breasts, then travels lower, to the downy patch of hair between my legs. His jaw clenches and nostrils flare. “That’s a dangerous game, Dahlia.” His voice is soft. Soft enough to make me shiver with the implied threat.
It occurs to me that I’ve bitten off far more than I can chew. Still, I hold my ground, shoulders squared, breasts presented for his admiration. “You said you wouldn’t rape me.”
He prowls around the bed to my side.
It takes all my courage to hold my ground. To not bolt for the bathroom and lock the door once more.
He stalks closer and with each step, my heart picks up speed. My hands are clammy by my sides. My mouth is suddenly flooded with saliva, as if Antonio is something delectable to eat.
“It looks to me,” he rumbles in a deep purr, “that you're begging to be touched.”
He arrives in front of me and brushes the backs of his knuckles over the tip of my beaded nipple.
I can't suppress the shock of pleasure that ripples through me. The outward shiver that gives me away.
“Do you want me to touch you, Dahlia?” He pinches my nipple lightly between two of his knuckles and tugs. “Do you want me to show you the kind of pleasure I was describing over dinner?”
My breath comes in with tiny gasps and pants.
“N-no.” I'm not very convincing. The truth is, now that he's standing here before me, over six feet of glorious muscle and man, I do want him to touch me.
I want to find out exactly what he meant about pleasuring me with his tongue.
I'm not completely ignorant nor innocent. I certainly know how to use my own fingers to bring myself pleasure. I’ve used a pillow between my legs at night.
And every single time I was fantasizing about this man right here.
And now to find out that he does hold all the sexual secrets I imagined, that I may not have built him up to be something he wasn’t, it’s all just too much.
One of Antonio's large hands settles on my hip, and the warmth of his roughened palm against my skin generates heat in my core. He continues to tease my nipple. It’s starting to burn and tingle, making me needy for more.
Between my legs, there’s an answering pulse. Hot, tender neediness that squeezing my thighs together doesn’t alleviate. He trails his fingers lightly over my hip, then down the side of my thigh.
I try to suppress the trembling that started in my legs.
His fingertips trace up my buttocks. “Do you think your precious mayor could make you feel this way, Dahlia?”
“He's not my precious mayor,” I choke out. I don't know why I give Antonio the satisfaction, though.
Antonio shifts his fingers from my nipple to lightly trace up the column of my neck until his index finger arrives at my chin. He gently nudges it up until I look him in the eye. “No?”
I find myself shaking my head. “It was an arranged marriage.”
“Like ours,” he says as if satisfied.
“This was not an arranged marriage. You stole me from my groom!”
As soon as I speak the words, I wish I hadn't because Antonio's face darkens, and he takes a step back from me. I immediately register the loss of his touch. Crave his attention.
“Ah, yes. A groom far more worthy of the yacht princess. Too bad. You're cursed to slumming with a blue collar brute for the rest of your days, Principessa.”
My stomach knots as I realize the bitterness in Antonio's tone is borne of the degradation and treatment he received at the hands of my father and our penal system.
I'm sure the jury took one look at the working-class son of Italian immigrants and assumed he'd done everything my father accused him of.
“I don’t believe you’re a thief, Antonio.” I make my voice soft. Conciliatory.
Antonio’s eyes narrow. He holds my jaw with an overhand grip “You should.” He brings his face close to mine. So close I feel the heat of his breath feathering over my lips. “Believe it, Dahlia. Know that I’m going to keep on stealing from you for the rest of your life.”