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"Swallow," I order, panting as I shudder through aftershocks of intense pleasure.
She does, taking everything I have to give her without protest.
Her eyes never leave mine, the trust in them making me feel things I've never felt before. Seeing my seed on her tongue and the self-satisfied glimmer in those brilliant blue eyes—that's victory. So is the realization that the urge to possess and consume runs both ways between us.
She's falling for me, even if she doesn't mean to do it. Little by little, her walls are crumbling. Little by little, she's learning to trust me.
And little by little, she's becoming something irreplaceable to me. Something I'll kill to keep.
I pull her up from her knees, claiming her lips in a searing kiss. "Fight me," I mutter against her lips. "Give me nine kinds of hell if it makes you happy. But never forget that you can bring me to my fucking knees if that's what you choose to do. That's the power you have, cara mia. You're a principessa. This world is yours for the taking. It always has been. You cower for no one. You fear no one."
"What if I don't want to be a principessa, Mattia?"
I tip her face up until her gaze tangles with mine. "Then be my queen, cara mia. Don that armor when you need a reminder that you no longer have to fear the world." My thumb brushes her bottom lip. "The world should fear Aurelia Agostino now."
Her eyes flicker across my face before she bites her lip and nods. "Okay," she whispers. "I can do that."
When we emerge from the changing room, everything she looked at is bagged up on the front counter, waiting for us. No one will look us in the eyes. They know precisely what we've been doing.
I don't give a flying fuck.
"Why don't you go change, cara mia?" I suggest. "I'll pay and have everything loaded into the SUV."
"Okay," she whispers, her cheeks bright pink. She keeps her head held high and her shoulders back, though. It's a helluva lot better than where we started.
I scoop a bag from the counter and hold it out to her, watching as she turns and heads back to the back. Halfway there, her gaze drifts toward a dress hanging on the wall. She looked at the same one earlier.
I know nothing about dresses, but it's short and shimmery with puffy sleeves. She'd look like a fucking goddess in it.
"Why isn't that dress in a bag?"
"Sir?"
"That dress. Why isn't it in a bag?"
"Oh. Um." The shop girl's eyes dart around before she leans forward. "Mrs. Dawson said not to bag it because it's eleven thousand dollars, Mr. Agostino. She didn't think you'd want it."
"I said, bag up everything my wife looked at. Not bag up everything your bitch of a boss thought she deserved," I grit out, tossing my card on the counter in disgust. "Put it in a fucking bag. Now."
"Y-Yes, sir." The girl pales visibly before she scurries around the counter to get it.
I scoop up the rest of the bags to carry them out to the SUV, my blood boiling. It's not Aurelia's fault that I dragged her here dressed in my clothes. It's not her fault that her fucking father tossed her out like garbage. No one gets to treat her as if she's less than because she doesn't look like the kind of woman who needs a fucking eleven-thousand-dollar dress.
She could own everything in this shop without batting a lash if she wanted it. They have no concept of the kind of wealthy she is. But people like Mrs. Dawson love to lord their positions over others, as if working in places like this somehow makes them superior. Meanwhile, they can't even fucking afford the goddamn clothes they guard so closely.
Well, I can. Aurelia can. I'm drowning in money. It's hers if she wants it. Not that she'll need it once her brothers know who she is. She'll have enough of the Valentino fortune to last her fifteen lifetimes. They certainly won't miss it. She couldn't ever even hope to spend their fortune in her lifetime.
It's only a small part of the reason people like Brio Cascella will never beat Rafe. They're ants throwing rocks at giants.
As if thinking about Rafe conjured him, his ringtone blares from my cell in my breast pocket. I toss everything in the back and drag it from my pocket, swiping to answer.
"You've been quiet today," he says without preamble.
"I've been busy today."
"Scaring the neighborhood children?"
I smile at the question, leaning against the side of the SUV as cars whip past. The smell of the city lingers in the air—chocolate, the lake, and exhaust all mingling. If the sun is out, its rays don't penetrate the shadows cast by the buildings looming high overhead.
