Page 22 of A Game So Reckless

I don’t reveal myself yet. I want to see what she does.

She tosses her shoes off the ends of her toes. Then, in a movement so stunningly erotic it nearly causes me fucking pain, she pulls down her sheer black stockings, twisting her hips as she does so. I watch her slender fingers with those long, pointed nails. The same nails she shoved into my flesh two weeks ago.

Those wounds still haven’t fucking healed properly.

When her stockings are down to her ankles, she steps daintily out of them, revealing the smooth skin of her calves and bare feet.

I know she’s got a far better tan than my Irish ass could ever be capable of, but out here in the moonlight she looks paler, especially when contrasting her naked skin with the black dress, black hair, and her huge dark eyes.

This is the second time I’ve seen her in a black dress.

Like she’s in mourning every moment she spends in my presence.

Can’t really say that I blame her.

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

Her voice slips softly through the night. Like silken fingers that caress your face.

Right before a slap.

I’ve never heard her voice before. Up on that rooftop, she didn’t make a sound.

I don’t like how her voice has disoriented me. I hate the way I nearly step forward without even telling my body to move, all because for a split second, I think her words are meant for me.

But she isn’t speaking to me. Her chin is tipped up. She’s speaking to the stone angel.

“Thanks,” she says softly.

She gets into the fountain.

Then, she takes off her dress.

I have to say, this wasn’t what I was expecting from the polished Titoneprincipessa. Undressing and then splashing around in a public fountain on the night of your fiancé’s funeral, frankly, doesn’t seem like something she’d be allowed to do. It’s too uncouth, too impulsive.

The fact that I’m seeing this little slice of her indulgent rebellion leaves me smirking with satisfaction. She may think this is a private moment of freedom.

But really, this moment is mine.

Just like the rest of her.

I can’t yet explain why, but I’m enjoying getting to see all these different versions of Valentina Titone. I’ve seen her primped and perfect in published photos. I’ve seen her defenceless, lips parted with sleep in her bed. I’ve seen her dying and desperate as she stabs a part of herself into me.

And now, I see how she is when she thinks that no one’s watching. She’s not putting on a show for anyone out here. There’s something almost poignant about her moving through the water the way she does. She’s an exact foil for the angel at her side. One modestly dressed in flowing robes, body still and hard, pale stone. One stripped down to nothing but black, black lace, all heat and softness and movement. Perfect breasts, curving hips, and silky damp skin.

Valentina is slow and thoughtful in her movements, her face smooth and sombre. She draws her fingertips tenderly over the surface of the water, like she’s feathering them over someone’s back.

My back.

I inhale sharply, then swallow hard, my spine suddenly feeling like it’s on fucking fire.

Maybe I need to jump into the goddamn fountain too.

I almost do, but something seen from the corner of my eye stops me.

It’s a man.

I narrow my gaze at him in the darkness. I don’t recognize him. I don’t know if he’s a funeral attendee or a member of staff from the restaurant out on a break.

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