57

God, it’s true. I’m already there.
“Why, Stefano?” I pant because I need to know the answer now. Whatever it is he thinks he knows about me.
“Because letting go of control would be wrong. And you like to get things right, don’t you, amore?”
I squeeze my eyes shut as pain spears my chest. He got it so right it burns. All my childhood I was made to feel wrong, never good enough. Always a fuck up.
My dad was an exacting bastard who liked to lecture, like to tell me what to do. Liked to slap us around if he was drinking.
The pain of that reality comes slamming through me at the same time as the pleasure of being rode hard by Stefano. I suddenly want to fight him, but it’s too late, my body’s already capitulated, cunt squeezing around his thick member, pulsing double-time with my heartbeat.
“Fuck,” Stefano grunts.
He drags me down to my knees on the sloped treadmill and pushes my torso down. He takes me from this angle until my teeth chatter and my G-spot’s numb and then he flips me to my back and finishes, pinning my forearms down to the frame of the treadmill.
I climax with him, hips lifting and bucking against his, my scream loud enough to echo off the mirrors.
I can’t move afterward. I’m limp and boneless with the two releases. He’d have to scrape me off the treadmill if he wanted me up.
He gets up and throws his condom away in the trash by the door, which makes me cringe thinking about whoever might see it there.
Then he comes back and leans on the treadmill rail, staring down at me. “I want to keep you naked like this forever. Putting those clothes back on you-as hot as you looked in them-would be a goddamn travesty.”
“You got a thing for pasty white skin and birthmarks?” I make fun of myself because I’m feeling too raw, like he stripped me emotionally when he named why I like his form of sex. And I’m starting to enjoy his praise way too much. Believe it, even, which is a huge mistake.
He frowns and shakes his head. “I fucking love that birthmark. I told you that before. I’m going to buy you a whole wardrobe of midriff shirts so you can show it off.”
I turn my face away from him, which gets me nowhere since we’re surrounded by mirrors.
“Stefano?” I ask the man in the mirror.
“Yeah?”
“What are you going to do with me? For real?”
He walks around to the other side of the treadmill, the side I’ve turned to and crouches in front of me. His pursed lips are soft and kissable, tangled fingers strong and calloused. “I’m keeping you close. You’re going to be my shadow until I’m sure of you.”
Relief cascades through me. It must show on my face, because Stefano frowns. “Were you worried I was going to kill you?”
“No,” I snap, sitting up, letting my hair curtain my face. For some reason, tears catch in my throat.
Of course he must hear it because he surges around the treadmill and lifts me to my feet, pulling me up against his chest. His free hand brushes lightly over my cheek.
“Then what is it?”
One errant tear leaves my eye and I struggle against him to turn away. I don’t even know, myself, why I choked up.
He leans down and flicks it with his tongue. “Is it so awful?” His voice is barely above a whisper.
I find his gaze, surprised. Is it awful? Being Stefano’s shadow? His captive prisoner? No. Not at all. He was right; it’s wonderful in the I’m not responsible for any of this so I can let go and enjoy kind of way.
“I-I think I’m just relieved,” I admit.
Stefano’s shoulders relax, and he pulls my head against his chest, still holding my wrists captive. “You did still believe I was going to kill you.”
The words sound shocking out loud. I’m surprised he can say them so easily, but yes. He’s right. Even though he feels like nothing but safety now, some part of me was still scared for my life.
I nod against his chest, hot tears flooding my eyes now.
“That was never my plan,” he rumbles above me, his lips in my hair. “I told you that from the beginning.”
And I didn’t believe you.
He strokes the back of my neck, toying with the baby curls there. “I’m sorry you were afraid, mi amore.” He kisses my head. “I don’t want you afraid of me.”
Only at his mercy.
I push away. This still doesn’t add up. “And if you can’t be sure of me? What then?”
“I’ll keep you until I can.” He winks. He’s trying to tease me, but I’m not having it.
I shake my head. “What if I’m a problem? What then?” I’m pushing for the answer I don’t want to hear, but I feel like we need to be clear. He may have treated me to the most incredible sex of my life, but nothing changes what this is. I’m his captive. If I don’t cooperate, I’m dead.
He purses his lips. “Bambina, what are you trying to get me to say? I don’t want to do this.”
I put my hands on my hips, challenge clear.
I see the shadow of danger appear on his face. “Are you going to be a problem?”
I ignore the twist of fear in my gut. “What if I am?” I whisper, my mouth dry as the Sahara, and I don’t mean the casino.
He shoves his hands in his shorts pockets, regards me coolly.
“Then you kill me?” I don’t know why this is an argument I’m trying to win. Do I need to prove I have a right to be afraid? That I know what I’m messing with, here?
“No.” He shakes his head immediately and takes a step forward, but I step back. He stops. “I told you no already.”
“Then what?”
He scrubs a hand across his mouth. “Then I’d use your pressure points,” he finally admits.
It’s bizarre how much of a relief it is to hear him admit it. To know the score.
“I see. So that’s what this is. You tie me to your bed until you’re either sure of me, or know enough about me to keep me scared for the rest of my life.”
He frowns and lunges for me so quickly I can’t dart away. He grabs my arm and pulls me into him, my body tumbling against the hard planes of his large frame. “That’s not what this is. Don’t fucking define it like that.” He’s mad and I’m not sure why. Oddly, his wrath turns me on.
Does it mean he cares?
Stop it.
Don’t think like that. Stefano Tacone doesn’t care about women. He’s a player. He loves women; he takes pleasure in watching women, enjoys their bodies, slakes his lust frequently and with gusto. That doesn’t mean he develops feelings for them.
For me.
His lips crash down on mine. I respond before I even start to wonder if I should hold back. It’s like my body was made to come alive any time he touches it. It doesn’t matter if he was just threatening me, whether he’s holding me captive or tormenting me. I’m his.
My pride tells me to push away, but I’m swept up in the moment. I want him to go on, to show me what comes next.
He walks me backward, lips locked until my ass hits a wall, then he keeps pushing, pressing his hard length against my belly as his tongue strokes against mine. He comes up for air and insinuates one solid thigh between my legs. “First of all, I wanted to fuck you the first moment I saw you standing behind that roulette wheel.”
Pardon me? I give him a what the fuck are you talking about look and he puffs with impatience.
“Were you implying I’m fucking you to keep you quiet? Like I’m some manwhore who solves problems with sex?” He frowns and curses something in Italian.
“If the shoe fits?”
“Well maybe I am, but only with you.” His dark gaze bores into me. “Amore, you’re tangled up in something ugly. Something I never wanted you involved in. It’s my fault, and I’m doing my best to fix it.”
“Interesting way of fixing it.” I can’t stop the dryness from crumbling my words.
Stefano picks up my discarded tank and pulls it over my head.
Session over. Discussion ended.
Pretty sure I’m in the same place as when I started, except I have all kinds of happy sex hormones flowing through my veins taking all the bite out of being Stefano’s prisoner.