Page 26 of Charming Villain

“Kneel.”

My heart beats in double time. He expects me to balk and ask why, I can see it in his gaze. But I learned long ago that questions cost too much. My father taught me that nothing good comes from challenging a man in power when he’s in a mood. I step forward and slowly lower myself to my knees, and the wood bites into my bones. The heat of the day lingers, making the air heavy with the scent of whiskey mingling with his cologne. It’s a heady combination that makes me wish we were lovers instead of enemies forced to marry.

For a long moment, Luciano watches me, sipping his drink in silence. My legs start to cramp, but I keep my posture as straight as I can manage. I won’t let him see my discomfort.

“When I saw you at Nico’s, I wanted to kill you. Then I wanted to kill your father. You’re a liar, and he’s a monster.” The words are spoken as casually as if we’re discussing the weather. “But then I realized if I’m forced to marry someone, it might as well be someone I can control. Someone I can control... or mold… or break…” He swirls the liquid in his glass, studying how it catches the light like he’s imagining all the ways he could shatter me right here and now.

I suspected as much, but hearing him say it aloud twists something in my gut. “I won’t break,” I say before I can stop myself.

Luciano arches a brow in surprise. “Oh?”

Silence settles again, broken by the quiet hum of the air conditioner. Then, with deliberate slowness, he leans forward. He braces his forearms on his knees and makes his face level with mine. “You’ll do what I say,” he murmurs, his voice soft enough to make my skin prickle. “Or you’ll suffer consequences. Your choice, Gianna Lucatello.”

I clench my jaw, refusing to voice the fear crawling through my stomach. But there’s a small flame inside me, a reminder that even if I have to submit physically, my mind is my own.

For a moment, his gaze flicks down, lingering on my mouth. My pulse trips. Is he going to kiss me? Hurt me? I can’t read him—his calm unsettles me more than any rage ever could. Then he speaks again: “Touch yourself.”

A flush of indignation heats my face, creeping down my neck and making my skin feel too tight. “No,” I snap, the word coming out strangled with a hint of desire. My fingernails dig into my palms, anger warring with unwanted attraction. I loathe how that first night we met still burns in my brain, how my body remembers pleasure even as my mind rejects him.

A sharp smile tugs at Luciano’s lips like he’s pleased I resisted. “You want me to force you?” He asks. “Is that where we’re going?”

“I won’t do it.”

He exhales a faint laugh before cupping my chin and tilting my face up, forcing us to make eye contact. I shudder at his touch, memories of our night at the motel rushing back.Why does my body recall that pleasure, even as my mind rejects him?

“Look at me.” Luciano’s tone is all steel and velvet. When I refuse to raise my eyes, he tightens his grip. “I said,look. at. me.”

Reluctantly, I meet his gaze. His pupils are dark, nearly swallowing the brown iris. Every fiber of my being screams at me to run away, but I hold still.

He releases my chin, hand sliding downward, skimming the column of my throat before drifting lower. His touch leaves a trail of fire in its wake, each brush of his fingers a spark against my skin. My breath hitches, and I press my thighs together in reflex, hating how my body responds to him even now. He notices, of course. A smirk ghosts across his features, familiar and predatory in a way that makes my stomach flutter with equal parts fear and lust.

Then he slides his palm along my inner thigh, not quite at my center but close enough that I feel my body betray me with a jolt of unwanted sensation. The rough calluses on his hand catch against my sensitive skin, making me shiver despite myself. My cheeks flame with a heat that spreads down my neck. I’m not sure if it’s humiliation or desire burning through me. Maybe both.

But his fingers don’t stop. They creep beneath my dress and tease the edge of my panties, lace so thin it might as well be air. His touch leaves a trail of goosebumps, each brush of skin against skin making my breath catch traitorously in my throat. He’s so close that I can feel his breath on my neck, hot and uneven. “You’re wet already, Gianna. You might as well give in.” His voice is low and wicked, dripping with dark promise, and I hate the way it makes my stomach flip-flop.

Slowly, his hand slips past the fragile barrier of my panties, fingers brushing against my slick warmth. I gasp when his middle finger traces the swollen nub of my clit with almost cruel precision. My thighs tremble, threatening to give out beneath me, as a soft moan escapes my lips.

Luciano’s fingers circle my clit with slow, maddening pressure—just enough to make my hips jerk forward, seeking more of his touch. “That’s it,” he growls, his voice a rumble that resonates through my chest. “Dance on my fingertips, beautiful.”

I can’t hold myself up when he suddenly plunges two fingers deep into my pussy. My knees buckle, and I reach out to steady myself, grabbing onto the arm of his chair. My body clenches around him, involuntarily begging for more even though my lips utter silent protests. His thumb picks up where his fingers left off, working lazy, torturous circles around my clit in a rhythm that feels designed to drive me to the brink of insanity. He makes it impossible to think, impossible to resist.

“If you want to pretend you don’t want me as much as I want you, that’s fine,” he says casually, his eyes never leaving mine as he pistons his fingers in and out of my center at a pace that makes my toes curl. “But someone should tell your body. Your pussy’s dripping for me, Gianna. You’re clenching around me like you want me to make you cum.”

I whimper, my hips bucking against his hand on their own accord, drawn to the pleasure like a moth to a flame. Pressure builds in my core, a tightening that promises release but also threatens to consume me entirely. “Luciano,” my tone reeks of desperation and need. “I—I can’t—we can’t?—”

“Yes, you can,” he encourages me. “Break for me, darling. Let go. Give me what I want, whatyouwant.”

He wants me to beg for mercy or maybe beg for more, and the worst part is that I’m not sure which one to choose.

“You could end this easily. Do what I say, and this marriage will be bearable. We both know you’re capable of surrender,” he adds.

I’m trembling, but it’s not from desire. Or maybe part of it is—I hate that I can’t separate them, that my body still remembers how good it felt to give in to him once. But that was then when I could pretend it was just about mutual need. This is about power, not passion, and the difference burns like acid in my throat.

“No,” I whisper, my nails digging crescents into his forearm.

His fingers go still. Then he exhales, and I sense his frustration. Luciano is used to winning battles. He’s probably never encountered someone who doesn’t melt under his intimidation, who meets his darkness with their own stubborn light. My father is a monstrous man, but I survived him. Luciano’s cruelty is a different flavor, more intimate, more personal—but I survived once, and I can survive again.

At last, he jerks away, shoving himself upright with a muttered curse in Italian. His features are set in a stony mask carved from marble and just as cold, but I catch the flicker of agitation in his eyes. He grabs his whiskey, tosses back what’s left in one harsh swallow, and slams it on the coffee table.

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