Page 366 of Rosetti Family New York
My clothes. The only things available to her in this place.
I flip my coin between my fingers, metal warm from my skin. Three days. Three days of watching her move through this house like a caged bird, all controlled grace and hidden fury. Three days of morning coffee and carefully polite conversation and pretending this is just business.
It stopped being just business the moment I saw her photograph.
The bathroom door opens on the screen, and Isabella disappears from view. I hear the soft sound of running water through the speakers, pipes humming through the walls. Her second shower today.
I should turn off the monitor. Give her privacy. My hand hovers over the switch.
This is insane. I'm Matteo Rosetti. I've had supermodels beg to spend the night in my bed. I've walked away from billionaire's daughters who offered me everything they had. I choose who I want, when I want them, how I want them. I don't sit in dark rooms watching hidden cameras like some desperate fool.
Yet here I am.
The coin grows still between my fingers.
Instead of hitting the off switch, I reach for a different control. The hidden camera feed flickers to life, showing the bathroom from an angle she'll never suspect. Steam rises from the glass shower enclosure, and there's Isabella, her back to the camera as she reaches for a towel.
Hell. Look at her.
She has no idea I can see her. No idea I'm watching every movement, cataloguing every detail. No idea that the most powerful man in New York is reduced to this, sitting alone in the dark, already hard just from the promise of seeing her naked.
What has she done to me?
Heat shoots straight to my cock, and I'm pressing my palm against the growing bulge in my pants before rational thought kicks in.
She pulls the hoodie over her head, then steps out of the sweatpants, and I forget how to breathe. Her skin looks porcelain pale in the soft lighting, curves and valleys that make my hands ache to touch. There's a single candle burning on the counter, something she asked for yesterday. I gave it to her so I could watch her by candlelight.
Twisted doesn't begin to cover it.
But I'm also harder than I've been in years. This is different from the calculated seductions, the rehearsed moves, the women who spread their legs because of my name or my money or the thrill of danger. This is raw. Primal. Real.
I've never had to work for it before. Never had to want something I couldn't simply take. Lindsay Lonnigan practically threw herself at me last week, and I felt nothing but mild satisfaction when I made her come. The Petrova twins offered me a threesome at Leo's birthday party, and I turned them down because I was bored before they finished talking.
But Isabella? Isabella makes me feel like a teenager again, desperate and hungry and completely out of control.
She steps under the spray, and water cascades over her shoulders, down her spine. Her head tilts back, eyes closed, and she makes a soft sound that the microphones barely pick up. Even through the speakers, that sound goes straight to my cock.
That noise. That tiny, unconscious expression of pleasure is going to haunt me.
This isn't about power anymore.
I unzip my pants with trembling fingers, pulling my cock free. It's already slick with precum, the head dark and swollen. When was the last time I was this hard? When was the last time I needed release this badly?
Never. The answer is never.
My breathing changes, getting heavier as I watch her hands move over her neck, slick with soap and water. Her fingers trace her collarbone, then lower, circling the tops of her breasts, and I have to bite back a groan. She's touching herself so innocently, so unconsciously, and it's driving me out of my fucking mind.
I wrap my hand around my cock and stroke slowly, savoring the sensation. Usually, I'm quick, efficient. Get off and move on. But this? This I want to make last.
She's completely unaware. Completely mine to watch. The thought should make me feel guilty, should make me shut off the feed and walk away.
Instead, it makes me stroke myself harder.
I've had women worship my body, beg for my touch, do anything I asked. But none of them ever made me feel like this. Like I'm starving. Like I'd crawl on my knees just to taste her skin.
Her movements are unconscious, sensual, self-contained. She isn't performing for anyone, which makes it worse. Makes it real. There's no artifice here, no careful control. Just Isabella being Isabella, and it's more intoxicating than any seduction I've ever orchestrated.
My thumb swipes over the head of my cock, spreading the moisture there, and I imagine it's her tongue. Would she be shy the first time? Would she look up at me with those green eyes while she took me in her mouth?
