Page 16 of Brutal Union
The boutique empties in seconds, leaving us alone. I should cover myself, run back to the changing room, do anything but stand here letting him devour me with his eyes. But I'm frozen,caught between humiliation and the arousal making my entire body burn.
"You're exquisite," he says, voice rough.
"This was an accident. I opened the wrong door." But the words come out breathy, undermined by how my back arches slightly toward him, presenting myself like an offering.
"Your body knows who owns it." He stands, moving closer but not touching. "Look how your nipples are begging for my mouth through that plain cotton."
"I hate you."
"Your pussy doesn't." The crude words make me gasp. "I can smell your need, principessa. Sweet and shameful. The cotton is soaked through."
My face burns with shame and arousal. Because he's right. I am drenched. Have been since he looked at me in that red gown with such dark hunger. My body's betrayal is complete, responding to my captor like he's my lover.
I back through the open door behind me, and as soon as I escape his gaze, I dress quickly, my role as his little dress-up Barbie over. The ride back starts in tense silence, bags filling the trunk with thousands of dollars of clothes I never asked for. Designer armor for a war I'm losing against myself.
We're three blocks from the boutique when we hit a red light. The city bustles around us, people crossing the street, living their free lives. The door handle gleams in the afternoon sun.
I don't think about escape. I learned that lesson. Instead, I think about rebellion.
"I could scream," I say conversationally. "Right here, surrounded by witnesses. Tell them I'm being held against my will."
His hand shoots out, fisting in my hair with brutal efficiency. He yanks my head back against the headrest, his mouth suddenly at my ear.
"Try it," he growls, his grip tightening until tears spring to my eyes, "and Alice will be married to Patrick O'Brien's youngest by sunset. You know his reputation with young wives. They say the last one wasn't seen in public again until her funeral."
The threat makes my blood run cold.
"Let go," I manage, but my voice wavers.
"Never." His free hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there in warning as the light turns green. "You're mine, Valentina. The sooner you accept that, the easier this becomes."
Tommy drives on like nothing happened, professional enough to ignore his boss threatening his captive wife in the backseat. Marco's hand stays fisted in my hair for another block before finally releasing me, sliding down to rest possessively on my thigh.
"You're insane if you think threats will make me submit."
"I don't need you to submit." His voice is calm now, controlled. "Your body does that without permission."
He's right, and I hate him for it.
Because I'm wet. Soaking wet from him yanking my hair, from his hand on my throat, from the threat of what he'd do to protect his possession of me. My body's betrayal is complete, responding to his violence with arousal instead of fear.
His hand settles more firmly on my thigh, possessive and warm through the thin fabric of my dress. Not moving higher, just resting there, claiming that inch of me like he claims everything else.
"Your pulse is racing," he observes, thumb stroking once along my inner thigh. "But not from fear."
I turn my face to the window, unable to look at him. Unable to face what I'm becoming. "You're wrong."
"Liar." His hand tightens slightly. "You're dripping right now. Aching for me to slide my hand higher, to find out how wetyour pussy is from my rough handling. I can smell it, that sweet scent of your arousal getting stronger."
The crude truth makes me bite my lip hard enough to taste copper. Because he's right. I want his hand to move higher. Want him to feel what he does to me. Want him to take what my body is offering even as my mind screams in protest.
This is my defeat. Not the forced marriage or the gilded cage. This, my body choosing him despite everything, this is how I lose myself.
"I still hate you," I whisper, the last resistance I have left.
"I know." His thumb strokes my thigh again, and I have to suppress a whimper. "It doesn't matter. Hate me all you want, principessa."
The rest of the ride passes in unbearable tension, his hand never moving from my thigh, my arousal never fading. By the time we reach the penthouse garage, I'm trembling with need and self-loathing in equal measure.
