Page 50 of Wilt

I don’t know who’s looking back at me, but she’s a woman who knows sex, who indulges in all kinds of acts and loves every moment. She’s a woman who can wind a man around her finger and have him crawling back for more. This isn’t me, and while it gives me a surge of forbidden power, I could never pull that off. Then again, if I’m next to Nikolai, that’s exactly what people will think. I look like I belong with him, not to him.

Shit. His warnings and threats flash through my head. I grab his watch—I’ve got minutes to spare. I’d love to tell him to fuck off. I’d love to throw a tantrum and refuse to come down. Hell, I’d love to make the man wait.

But I’m not going to. I don’t want to test him.

With a deep breath, his watch in hand, I head down the stairs towards the devil himself.

Chapter18

Nikolai

Holy fuck.

She’s fucking stunning, just like she was at the pageant, and right now? Up close, looking every inch the mafia princess, she’s beyond that. She’s something no man could ever skip over. If I hadn’t taken her, she would have won that stupid, idiotic pageant.

Rose is drop-dead beautiful, looking like she leaves behind a path of bodies, discarded men, those who couldn’t hold her interest.

She looks up at me like I’m the man who can.

“Stop,” I sneer. “Go back up and sway your hips a little.”

She does as I command.

“Stop. Rose, turn and come to me, slow and deliberate. Look at me like I’m your world.”

As she listens, my cock jerks. “Good. You need to look at me like that the moment we step out of the car.”

She nods. “Yes, sir.” My cock jerks again.Goddamn it.

When she comes to a stop in front of me, closer than before, I can see the jump of nerves in her pulse, in her gaze. I’m not going to lie: the dichotomy of her scorching sexiness and beauty and her sophisticated edge and hesitancy is a goddamn fucking turn on. If I didn’t have plans, if I didn’t have a plan to stick to, I’d fuck her senseless right now.

This is going to be both easier and more difficult than I thought.

Easy, because there’s no way a man could ever think to keep his hands to himself with her, dressed like this, knowing she’s not wearing lingerie beneath that dress. Difficult because not going too far has to be upfront and foremost in my mind.

“You look phenomenal in black. My personal princess.”

She blushes as I move to the side table to grab a bottle of perfume. It’s roses, just roses, and it smells clean and fresh and green, like they’ve just been plucked from a garden, dew still clinging. I thought of something heavy, pure sex and hedonistic, and it would have fit, but the innocence, the pureness, of roses is better. It fits the real Rose, and it tells anyone who gets close enough there’s a whole story beneath her clothes, between her and me.

No one’s ever getting fucking close enough.

“Hold out your wrists.”

She does, and her fear keeps slipping into lust as she looks at me. I’m in black, too, in a bespoke suit. Understated, elegant, made to fit. She wants what she sees, clearly. I turn the bottle, pulling out the glass stopper as I dab it on her wrists, throat, between her breasts where the low cut of the dress clings like a lover to those gorgeous tits. I add a little to her inner elbows before recapping the jar. It’s just enough for someone—me—to get a hint of.

Finally, I pick up the small velvet bag. “One more thing, Rose.”

“What?” A wariness overshadows her blue eyes.

I smile. “This.” I pull out a choker of onyx with my initials gilded in rubies. Overkill, perhaps, but I want everyone to know who she belongs to and what she is.

My property.

My toy.

Mine.

It’s subtle yet obvious. Subtle overkill?

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