Page 375 of Rosetti Family New York
"Tell me to stop," he whispers, his thumb tracing my pulse while his other hand stays perfectly still, a brand of possession that makes my nipples tighten painfully.
Every rational thought I have screams at me to push him away, to maintain some shred of dignity, some vestige of control. But my body has other ideas. I'm melting under his touch, my carefully constructed walls crumbling like sand.
Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch, my lips parting on a soft gasp that sounds like surrender.
"You're wrong," I whisper, but even I don't believe it. My body is screaming its need, my skin burning where he touches me. The grandfather clock chimes the hour somewhere behind him, marking time while my world narrows to this moment, this touch, this impossible want.
"Am I?" His hand shifts slightly against my breast, and I bite back a moan. "Then prove it. Tell me to stop."
The words should come easily. Two simple words that would end this, that would put distance between us, that would restore some measure of control to this situation. But they stick in my throat like stones.
Because the truth is, I don't want him to stop. The truth is, his touch makes me feel more alive than I've felt in years. The truth is, I've spent my entire life being the perfect niece, the perfect curator, the perfect Callahan, and I'm tired of being perfect.
"I..." I start, then trail off as his hand tightens possessively against my breast. The sensation shoots straight through me, molten and devastating.
"You what, bella?"
The endearment rolls off his tongue like honey, and I have to close my eyes against the wave of want that crashes over me. His hand is still pressed against my bare skin, a constant reminder of his control. "I hate you."
"No," he says softly, his breath warm against my ear. The sound of his voice, so close, so intimate, makes me shiver. "You hate that you want me. There's a difference."
My eyes snap open, and I see my own desire reflected in his gaze. "You're arrogant."
"I'm right." His thumb drags slowly along my pulse point while his other hand remains motionless against my breast, and I bite back a moan. The dual sensations are driving me insane, pleasure and frustration warring in my chest. "You want me, Isabella. And Friday night, everyone is going to see exactly who you belong to."
"I don't belong to anyone." But the protest sounds weak even to my own ears, especially with his hands on me, claiming me.
"Don't you?" He leans in closer, his lips almost brushing mine. The scent of him surrounds me, warm and masculine and intoxicating. "Then why haven't you tried to escape? You're smart enough to find a way out of here if you really wanted to. But you don't, do you?"
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication. Because he's right, and we both know it. I could have tried the windows, could have tested every lock, could have made some attempt to get away. But I haven't. And the reason terrifies me more than anything else about this situation.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock and the sound of our breathing. Finally, I speak, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Fine." The word comes out as barely more than a breath. "I won't run."
"Good girl." The approval in his voice makes warmth bloom in my chest. "And the rest?"
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "I won't speak to Chase privately."
"And?"
This is the moment. The point of no return. I can feel it hanging between us like a blade, ready to cut away the last of my pretenses. "I'll smile when you touch me."
"Because?"
The final piece. The admission that will shatter what's left of my carefully constructed walls. "Because I want you to."
The words hang in the air between us for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, and then he's moving. His mouth crashes against mine, and I taste possession and hunger and something deeper that makes my knees go weak. His hand finally moves against my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple, and I moan into his mouth, the sound echoing off the library walls.
When he pulls away, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the tremor in his hands where they hold me. The afternoon light has shifted, casting longer shadows between the bookshelves.
"Friday night," he says quietly, his voice rough with want, "you'll wear what I choose. You'll stay close. And if you try to run, if you try to betray me, I'll drag you back in front of everyone. And you'll like it."
I want to argue. I want to tell him that he's wrong, that I'm not his to command, that I still have some measure of control over my own life. But the words won't come. The taste of him is still on my lips, the memory of his touch still burning through me.
"I understand," I whisper.
He studies my face for a long moment, his hand still pressed against my skin, then slowly withdraws both hands. The loss of his warmth makes me want to reach for him, but I keep my hands at my sides, my body still thrumming with unsatisfied need.
