AllFreeNovel
Share Us
So, instead of snapping back, I just turn away, walking to the edge of the infinity pool, and slip down into the water.
It’s pleasantly cool, a little more so than the night air, and I let out a soft sigh as I sink deeper. Salvatore fades from my mind for a moment at the pleasure of the water washing over my skin and the beauty of the night around me. The sky is velvet-dark, studded with more stars than I’m ever able to see at home, even outside the city, and the moon hangs nearly full in the sky, gleaming white. The water laps against the pylons supporting the villa, a soft, rhythmic sound that only adds to the peace of the night. Salvatore says nothing; the only sound from him is the occasional dry brush of paper as he turns the pages of his book.
I turn in the pool, looking at him as I rest my forearms on the edge. He looks younger here, almost boyish in the slightly rumpled, more casual clothes, only the faint greying at his temples and in his stubble betraying the fact that my husband is a man in his early forties. That faint hum of desire stirs in my blood again, and as I look at him, I wonder what would happen if I gave in to this.
Pyotr isn’t coming for me. He would have stormed the mansion by now, if he really loved me. If he really wanted me. I can hear the whispers in the back of my head, and it makes me wonder how much of all of this really was fantasy, the way Salvatore stubbornly claims that it is. If I was as naive as Salvatore seems to think I was. If I made up a dream in my head about a man who was never going to live up to it in reality.
If, maybe, Salvatore and I could have some measure of happiness, if we stopped fighting each other. If maybe I should just accept this.
What better place to try than in paradise?
I push myself up out of the pool, dripping water onto the deck. Salvatore looks up at the sound of splashing, and I see the way his face briefly tightens, his eyes sweeping over me again. I know what he’s seeing—the black swimsuit clinging wetly to me like a second skin, the water beading off of me, dripping to the stone beneath my feet. He draws in a slow breath, setting down his book, and my heart flips in my chest with something that I can’t deny feels like anticipation.
“Gia.” He says my name with a rough exasperation, but there’s something else in it, too, a scratchy rasp that makes my heart start to race. “Aren’t you tired of playing these games?”
“Yes,” I say simply, taking a step forward, and I can tell that’s not what he expected. His eyes narrow, and he looks at me warily, as if he’s waiting for the next barbed comment, the next biting remark.
I walk closer to where he’s lying, my pulse beating a rapid pulse in my throat. “So let’s stop playing, Salvatore.”
He doesn’t move. I hold out my hand, and I can see that he’s aroused, in every inch of his body. He’s tense, wound tight, the thick line of his cock straining against his fly. He’s resisting me, but I don’t think he has very much resistance left in him.
It gives me a heady sense of power that I’ve never had before. Suddenly, it feels better than those afternoons with Pyotr, better than my fantasies, better than anything. Salvatore is the most powerful man in New York, a man famous for his discipline and self-control, an austere and terse man.
And I want to break him. I want to make him lose control.
I want to be the thing that shatters him.
“We talked about this,” I say quietly. “As recently as earlier tonight. You need an heir, Salvatore. So let’s stop playing, and take me to bed.”
His gaze flicks to my outstretched hand, back to my face, as if I’m a trap he’s resisting stepping into. He sits up slowly, and stands up without taking my hand, his dark eyes fixed on mine.
“I will eventually need an heir,” he agrees quietly. “You’re right about that.”
There’s nothing seductive about the words either of us is saying, but the timbre of his voice tells an entirely different story. There’s that rasp, that deep, faintly accented hoarseness, that tells me he’s fighting desire with everything in him. My pulse flutters in my throat, and I can feel the flush creeping over my skin.
“There’s no better place to start than on our honeymoon, right?” It comes out breathier than I intended, and Salvatore’s gaze narrows, his eyes flicking briefly from mine down to my lips, and back up again.
I can feel his control fraying. He’s standing so close to me that I could reach out and touch him, but I don’t. I want him to touch me, for him to give in to what he wants, to admit that in some part of himself, this was never just about protecting me.
If we’re going to be married, we’re not supposed to lie to each other. At least, that’s the sort of marriage I hoped for. And I’m convinced that Salvatore is lying both to me and to himself, when it comes to this.
His jaw tightens, the small muscle there leaping. “Fine,” he says, the word gritted between his teeth. “You’re right, Gia. What better place than here?”
My breath catches, my heart flipping in my chest. Anticipation and fear tangle together, tightening my throat as he steps away from me, opening the glass door that leads into the villa. I follow him inside, into the bedroom, nerves fluttering through my stomach. It’s not a feeling light or pleasant enough to be called butterflies—moths, maybe. This feels like a monumental choice, like something that I won’t be able to come back from, once we do it. Uncertainty grips me as he stops at the foot of my bed, and I feel my hands tremble.
But I don’t back down. Some of it is curiosity, some of it is pride, and some of it is a simple desire to stop playing this game. The rest is a perverse desire to make him finish taking what he stole—to follow through on what he started when he claimed me at the altar. It’s all mixed up inside of me until I’m something that needs a word stronger than confused to describe it, but I’m too stubborn to tell him that I’m not sure of my choice.
“Take it off.” Salvatore nods to my bathing suit, as he reaches for his shirt. “Lie on the bed.”
I blink, momentarily startled. He’s colder than I thought he would be, more like he was on our wedding night. I wanted the man who held me against his chest and wrung pleasure out of me in front of that mirror, not the unfeeling husband who acts as if he’s just going through the motions. I hesitate, on the verge of backpedaling.
Salvatore’s lips press together. “I thought you were done playing games, Gia.”
A flare of resentment washes over me. I tip my chin up defiantly, glaring at him as I hook the fingers of one hand in the thin chain on my hip, the other hand going to undo the one behind my neck. I let the two pieces of the bathing suit drop nearly at the same time, the fabric hitting the hard floor with a wet slap as I stare directly at Salvatore, daring him to do something about it.
I see him swallow hard, just before he slides his shirt over his head. I see the flex of muscle in his chest and his arms, the glitter of the thin golden chain he wears against the dark hair on his chest. He drapes the shirt over the foot of the bed, reaching for his belt. “On the bed, Gia.”
His voice is still flat, hard, as if he’s directing a business meeting instead of getting ready to take his wife’s virginity. The contrast in his emotionless voice and the reactions of his body are startling, and it infuriates me. I can see how turned on he is; it’s in the tension of his jaw and shoulders, the sharp, quick way he undoes his belt, the sight of the thick, swollen base of his cock as he starts to push his pants down his hips.
