Page 36 of Charming Villain

In my chest, a small seed of hope takes root. If he can care about a helpless kitten, then maybe he can learn to care about me, too. And even if that caring started as ownership, maybe it can become something akin to genuine affection, or even love, if we both stop fighting it so hard.

Chapter20

Luciano

I’ve spent the entire afternoon downstairs, staring at the same page of a business ledger without absorbing a single word. The numbers blur, replaced by images I can’t forget: Gianna’s parted lips, the warmth in her eyes when she cradled that damn kitten, the way she looked at me after each of our kisses. Every few minutes, I snap the ledger shut and rub my temples, furious at myself for letting her occupy so much of my headspace. It feels like a betrayal of everything I’ve worked for—the single-minded pursuit of revenge that led me here in the first place.

The late sunlight filters through the curtains, painting the living room walls in shifting patterns of gold. Outside, a breeze rustles the hedges, but the inside of the house is stifling. My chest feels tight, and my shirt suddenly too constricting. In the kitchen, I can hear Gianna moving around, the clink of glass, or a cupboard door opening. Cupcake’s soft mew drifts through occasionally, and each time I hear it, a pang of annoyance pricks my chest—because it reminds me of that day at the pet store, how easily she busted through my self-constructed walls just by smiling at me in the bright aisles of PetCo.

I shut the ledger for the tenth time, frustration burning hot under my skin. I get to my feet and begin pacing as if it might help. The house has grown so quiet, but tension hums in the air like static. I sense Gianna’s presence—her softness, her relentless calm, and the complicated storm of my own attraction swirling in her orbit.

Something’s wrong, though. A flicker of movement catches my eye. I look toward the front door and notice that it’s open, cracked just enough for a slight breeze to sweep in and ruffle the curtains.

I cross the living room in three strides, throwing open the front door. Gianna stands outside on the top step, arms folded around herself, her back to me. She isn’t fleeing—there’s no getaway car, no suitcase—but the sight of her crossing the threshold without permission snaps something in me. “Gianna.”

She turns around, eyes widening at my harsh tone. “I needed some fresh air.” Her hair ruffles in the breeze, and she presses her lips together as if bracing for a fight.

I yank her by the wrist and drag her inside, slamming the door behind us. Fury roils in my gut—fury at myself for feeling so threatened by something so small. The lock clicks under my palm as I twist it a little too forcefully. “You think you can leave whenever you want?” My voice trembles with raw anger, even though I know she wasn’t actually running. She was just outside, like any normal person who wants to feel the sun on their face.

Gianna’s expression flares with defiance. “I wasn’t leaving. I just needed air. I’ve been cooped up in here for weeks, or have you forgotten?”

Something tears inside me at the way she meets my gaze, patient and unafraid. My shoulders tighten. “So you think you can do whatever you want because…?”

She wrenches her arm free with surprising strength, her glare matching mine. “I think I’m confused, Luciano. You threaten me one minute; then you let me keep Cupcake and take me to buy supplies the next. You kissed me—twice—and then acted like it never happened. You’re the one sending mixed signals, not me. How am I supposed to know what you want when you can’t even seem to figure it out yourself?”

Her words hit me like a sucker punch.Mixed signals. I hate that she’s naming them, hate that she sees the cracks in my resolve. My mind flashes to the cat, to my own traitorous desire for her. My heart hammers so loud I can’t form a proper defense, so I lash out the only way I know.

“You don’t get to question me,” I snarl, stepping closer. Her back meets the wall beside the door, and I loom over her, letting my anger fuel a twisted sense of control. “I do what I want, when I want. And you—” I pause, fury tangling with lust, “you belong to me, Gianna. Your father agreed to give you to me. Don’t ever forget it.”

Something emboldens her, makes her lift her chin despite the fear I see flickering in her eyes. “Do you want me as your wife, Luciano, or do you want to kill me? Because I can’t tell anymore.”

Heat scorches through my veins. This woman has the nerve to pinpoint exactly what I can’t admit—Idowant her, more than I can stand. But I can’t let her see how deeply she affects me. My hand slams against the wall beside her head, the impact jolting my wrist. I dip my face close, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo.

“Let’s clear this up,” I say, voice dropping to a low rasp. “Let’s see how much you want these mixed signals once I’m done with you.”

Gianna sucks in a sharp breath, but there’s still a tint of defiance in her gaze. My gut twists into a violent knot of lust and anger.Why do I ache to prove I can break her?Because I feel too much whenever she’s near. Because she’s unwinding every defense I’ve built. Because if I let her keep pushing, keep burrowing under my skin with those knowing looks and challenging words, I’ll lose the last shred of vengeance that I’ve made my identity the last five years.

I grab her wrist and drag her through the hallway, past the living room, and up the stairs to our bedroom. She stumbles after me, protesting, but I’m too far gone to stop. My madness overshadows reason.I’ll show her who’s in control.And maybe I’ll remind myself, too. Because every time she meets my gaze with her quiet understanding, I feel my resolve cracking.

We reach the bedroom, and I shove her inside, slamming the door behind us. Her eyes flare with a mixture of alarm and indignation. Good. Let her be scared. Let her be furious. Let her fucking hate me if she wants because I don’t give a damn. The twisted desire in my chest begs for a confrontation that ends in no uncertain terms: she is mine to punish, to command, to control.

Gianna stumbles away from me, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. I smell the fear rolling off of her, but it’s mixed with arousal. I can see it in the ways her eyes dilate, in the way her breath hitches, in the way her lips part like she’s already begging for it. I should take it as a sign to slow down and figure out how to make this less about control and more about real intimacy. But the only thing my brain can focus on is the way her nipples pebble beneath her flimsy little dress and the way her thighs tremble as I step closer.

“You think you can test me, Gianna?” I growl, trying my damnedest to hold myself together. She doesn’t answer; she just glares at me with those big, doe eyes. So I reach out, grab a fistful of her dress, and yank. The sound of fabric tearing is loud as hell, and she gasps, her tits spilling out, soft and full, her nipples hard and begging for my mouth.

She tries to push me away, but I’m already shoving her onto the bed. Her panties are next—thin, lacy little things that do nothing to hide her arousal. I hook my fingers in the waistband and drag them down her legs, slow and torturous, letting the fabric catch on her thighs just to make her squirm.

“Luciano—” she starts, but I cut her off with a sharp slap to her inner thigh. She yelps, but her legs part anyway, like her body’s already surrendered. Her fingers twist in the sheets beneath her. The red mark blooming on her skin where I struck her only makes me want to mark her more.

“Shut up,” I snarl, grabbing Gianna’s ankles and yanking her to the edge of the bed. Her pussy’s slick and glistening, her clit is swollen and desperate for attention. I slide two fingers inside her, and she arches off the bed, a moan tearing from her throat, raw and unrestrained. Fuck, she’s tight, her walls clenching around me like she’s trying to pull me deeper. I curl my fingers, searching for that sweet spot, and when I find it, she screams.

But I don’t let her come; I don’t give her the satisfaction. I pull my fingers out slowly and deliberately, watching her face contort in frustrated agony as I deny her what she needs. She whimpers, her hips chasing after them, desperate to maintain that connection.

I grab her by the waist and flip her onto her stomach with enough force to make her bounce against the mattress. Her ass is right there, perfect and bare, begging to be marked. I land a sharp slap on one cheek, the sound echoing through the room as my handprint blooms crimson on her skin. Then I grab a fistful of her hair and yank her head back, my lips brushing her ear as I growl, “You want to push me, Gianna? Then you’d better be ready for what happens when I push back.”

I know I should stop. I should make sure she wants this, that she’s as desperate for this madness as I am. I should take my time and do it right. But something primal and possessive drives me forward. I fuck her with my fingers again, slow and deep, feeling her clench around me, then pull out just as she’s about to tip over the edge. She cries out, a raw sound where frustration and desperation entwine, and I grin, relishing the control I have over her pleasure.

“You do whatIsay, Gianna, not asyouplease.” I shove my fingers back into her soaked cunt, curling them just right to hit that spot inside her that makes her entire body shudder. Her thighs clamp around my wrist, but I don’t care. I’m in control here, and she knows it.

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