Page 8 of Her Brutal First Love

I'll make sure to wear red at your funeral so everyone knows I'm on the lookout for another sugar daddy.

Those had been her exact words.

But never had Giancarlo imagined, not even then, that she would actually be able to do it.

Until now.

He took the last unopened envelope. A collection of photos tumbled out, one of them causing Giancarlo to clench his fist until his knuckles started to whiten.

Her cheeks were flushed pink as she left the club.

But because he knew she didn't have it in her to still walk a straight line after drinking—-

Damn her.

Damn her.

Damn her.

Since Sarica had been cursed with two left feet, dancing was immediately out of the question, and so there was only one other way he could think of.

Only one way to make her heart pumping and her cheeks turning that rosy.

Only one way.

And the thought alone made him want to kill...or get himself killed.

Per che, dolcezza?

His phone buzzed, and the sound brought him back to his senses.

Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that it was God's perfect timing at work, God wanting Giancarlo to remember that neither vengeance nor anger could be of any help to him in the long run.

His phone buzzed again, and Giancarlo finally answered the call.

"I heard there was quite a plot twist in tonight's mission," Nassif drawled.

"I'll take care of her."

"And your wife?" the sheikh asked in sardonic amusement.

"I'll take care of that, too."

Chapter Three

The water was warm, almost too warm.

Steam filled the bathroom, curling around her like a lover’s embrace, and Sarica leaned back against the tiled wall, her eyes closed as she let the heat seep into her bones. But she wasn’t alone.

Strong hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer, and she gasped as a body pressed against hers. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know who it was. The feel of him, the scent of him—it was all so familiar, so achingly right. Her hands slid up his chest, her fingers tracing the hard planes of muscle as she leaned in to kiss him, her lips parting under his.

“Giancarlo,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need. “I’ve missed you.”

He didn’t answer, but his hands moved over her body with a possessiveness that left her trembling. His touch was everywhere, his mouth hot against her skin as he kissed her neck, her shoulders, her collarbone. She arched into him, her body responding to his every move, every touch, until she was trembling on the edge.

“Giancarlo,” she moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer. “Please...”

But something was wrong. The hands on her hips felt different—rougher, more demanding. The body pressed against hers wasunfamiliar, the scent not his. Her eyes flew open, and her breath caught in her throat.

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