Page 30 of Massimo

Wait…

I jerk awake, sitting up. The blood rushing from my head makes me dizzy, and I fall to the side.

"Easy, princess," a deep baritone voice says, and strong hands prop me up gently against a headboard.

Those hands aren't just strong, they're…massive.

Massimo.

I squeak in shock, trying to scramble away.

The bed dips, and my eyes fully focus, finding him sitting on the edge of the bed.

My mouth falls open. His hair looks wrecked—not the smoothed-back, perfected look I've only seen him with. And he's wearing… Oh, good lord…sweatpants and a T-shirt that pulls over his broad, muscular chest.

His arms are corded and covered with swirls of ink that disappear under the sleeves of his T-shirt. Does the ink continue onto his shoulders, back, and chest? In his suits, you have no idea he's tattooed.

I shove those thoughts away as shocked fear floods me, followed by a surge of lust so intense it steals my breath. The lust confuses the hellout of me, because I want so badly to give in to it. Especially with the way he's looking at me now—there's no hate or menacing malice.

My stomach rumbles, snapping me out of my lust-rattled fog.

At the sound of my stomach, his face turns pensive and even more concerned. He runs his large hand over his jaw, which is thick with stubble.

I shake my head. I must be dreaming.

"What…" My voice is a croak, so I swallow again, trying to wet my throat.

He offers me a glass of water.

Yes, I must be dreaming. Or on the verge of freezing or starving to death, and my mind is playing tricks on me.

I reach forward, but I don't take the glass. Instead, my hand goes for his face. He's entirely still; I don't even think he's breathing.

He's not real. This is a figment of my imagination.

My fingers touch his skin. He's warm, his stubble scratchy.

I pinch his cheek. Hard.

He smiles. And the sight of it… It should be added as one of the seven deadly sins.

"Do your worst, princess," he says softly. "I deserve it."

I snatch my hand away. "Massimo?"

He lowers his eyes and gently takes my hand and runs his knuckles over my open palm.

His touch is alarming. Not because it's sparking fear, but because it's making that lust rise in me again. Massimo touching me is doing things—unholy things—between my legs. I clamp them together tightly and pull my hand away.

"Jerome made you dinner."

"What's going on?"

I snap my mouth shut, chastising myself for speaking so freely with him. But waking from unconsciousness seems to have fiercely ignited my fire and fight, and I find myself wanting tobe mewith Massimo, to show him who I truly am.

Instead of doing or saying anything more stupid and foolish than letting my guard down, I assess my current situation.

I'm in an elegantly decorated bedroom, on a comfortable bed with a thick comforter. Looking down, I see that I'm wearing a two-piece pajama set made of the softest cotton I've ever felt.

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