Page 82 of Rosetti Family New York
His blood is the same poison as mine. He steps forward, between my thighs, and the movement feels practiced. Purposeful.
“You share my bed.”
He grips my chin and tilts it up.
“Not because I care for you.”
His lips ghost over mine. The barest touch of what he might really be capable of.
“Because you’re mine.”
5
Domenico
I'm close enough to see my name on her lips.
She won’t say it, though. I step between her legs, and the world shifts. Just me, her, and my command for her to share my bed.
I stare her down, let her see the heat in my eyes, the demand. Her dress is a pale green that makes her eyes glow, wrapped around her body and tied with a bow. One tug on that string, and the whole thing would fall open. I almost reach out and pull at the knot, but not yet.
Wanting her this much should be a crime. It’s all I can think as I take in the way she’s pressed against the wall for me. Dark hair, killer legs, but it’s those eyes that do it. The way they cut through me but act like they’re not trying. She’s sexy as hell, and the fact that her pussy’s this close to my thigh is driving me in-fucking-sane. But I won't rush it. Can't just take her. Not like this.
“Tell me you’ll sleep in my bed,” I demand, low and rough.
I need her to want this. Need her to want me. Plus, I have to figure this damn woman out. Her reaction is always changing. It’s like chasing a shadow, like trying to nail smoke to the wall.She lets me into her space, but then she glares like she’s got fire to burn. Acts like the perfect obedient wife then looks daggers at me.
Her lips twitch, almost a smile.
“If you require it,” she replies, and the words sound submissive but an edge of steel runs through them.
Her mix of obedience and challenge is fucking with me, and I almost pull at the bow that keeps her dress up. Almost.
“Tell me you want to.”
I don’t mean just sleeping in my bed. I mean us. Our marriage. But it’s a gamble, I know. A push, a dare.
I pull back enough to read her. She doesn’t move. When she finally blinks, her lashes draw my gaze.
“Do you want me to lie?” she asks, low and soft.
It’s not the words that hit me. It’s the fucking way she says them, like she’s brushing me off with the truth. Like I’m the one who’s not seeing things straight.
This woman is insane. Enigmatic as hell. On the surface, she looks mild, maybe even passive. But I believe it less and less with every passing minute. She’s playing me, and I don’t know how. Who the fuck is she? This wife of mine who’s supposed to be here because her father required it, because she didn’t have a choice.
“You are my wife, woman. Tell me you want to sleep in my bed.”
“What would that change?” she asks.
Cool, composed. Unflinching. The initial flash of fear—that one crack I caught a glimpse of in her eyes when I first backed her against the wall—is long gone.
It’s the tension, a live wire between us, that makes her words sound like a dare. I’m aching to close the gap between us, to pull at the bow that keeps her dress on, to rip it open and see what she does then. But I can't get a read on her, and it’s driving me even crazier than the fact that I’m ready to bleed desire. Who isshe? What is she? This woman who teeters between surrender and defiance.
“It changes nothing. You belong to me now, Besiana. Don’t ever forget it.”
I lean in, let my thigh press against her, and feel her heat. I watch the way her pulse jumps. The way her lips part. Her dress is loose enough to slide open, and her skin looks so soft underneath it, like I could leave my mark on her with just a whisper of my hand. I want to. God, I want to. But I need her to want it, too.
“What do you want?” she asks, but I hear what she really means. What do you want from me?
