“Take me to bed, Massimo. I need you.”
His entire body tenses. “Not yet,” he begs against my lips. “I’m a selfish motherfucker, Sloane.” His hands move to grip my ass and I am hauled up his body in one fluid motion, the hem of my gown easily moving with me. The deep pitch of his voice lowers to a possessive husk.
“I’ve already taken more than I should and I’d do it again.” He slowly rocks his hips. There’s only the thin silk of my panties and the material of his pants between us. I can feel every rigid inch of his cock.
He slowly sets me back down and gently urges me toward the contract.
I keep reading, but he stays by my side. Clause ten is financial protection for Harrison. Clause eleven is security provisions, which I skim because the idea of bodyguards makes my stomach clench for reasons I refuse to examine right now. Clause twelve is the dissolution terms: either party may terminate with thirty days' notice, all provisions remain enforceable through termination, all secrets kept in perpetuity.
"You've thought of everything," I have to admit.
He swallows whiskey before he says, "That's part of the job."
"Except clause thirteen."
I look up to find his eyes sharpening. He sets his glass on my counter. "There is no clause thirteen."
I smile. "Exactly." I set the contract down. "There's nothing in here about what happens if one of us catches feelings."
The kitchen goes quiet.
"Feelings," he repeats.
"Yes, Massimo. Feelings. Emotions. The inconvenient human experience of wanting someone for reasons that have nothing to do with clause four and everything to do with the fact that you're looking at me right now like you want to eat me alive and I'm standing here letting you because my self-preservation instinct has apparently gone on vacation."
His jaw tightens. His hands flex against my countertop, the tendons in his forearms standing taut. He doesn't move but theenergy in the room shifts, the air between us thickening with heat until I can feel it against my bare arms.
"If I wanted to eat you alive,tesoro, you'd know." A wicked flicker of unholy lust shines in his eyes. "You'd be on this counter."
I stand a little straighter and run my eyes up and down his body, stopping on the bulge in his pants. "Touché and it seems I'm not wrong?"
My thighs clench. Pulses of heat flood my system.
"That sounds like a threat, Mr. Santoro."
"It's a promise." He straightens, picks up the pen from inside the folio, and holds it out to me across the counter. "Sign the contract, Sloane."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I walk out that door. You go back to your couch and wait for Lorenzo Ferraro to come collect you." His voice drops to a dangerous husk. "Or you sign. And you find out exactly how broad clause four really is."
I pick up the pen. His fingers brush mine during the transfer, rough calluses against my fingertips, and the contact sends electricity straight to my heating core. I’m not saying I’m thinking with my pussy, but she’s definitely got stock in what I am about to do. But so does my heart and a ton of common sense.
"You should know," I say, clicking the pen, "that I'm a terrible cook, I steal the covers, and I talk in my sleep."
"I know."
"You know I talk in my sleep?"
"I know you steal the covers." His eyes burn. "You stole mine the first night. Or you pulled them off me to watch me sleep. Either way I woke to find myself uncovered and alone."
The memory of our night floods through me, hot and sharp. He’s right. I pulled them low so I could appreciate all the glorious deliciousness of his full, naked body. I swallow hard and put the pen to the paper.
"One more thing."
"Name it."
"The real clause thirteen." I look up at him. "No lying. Not to me. Not about the danger, not about Lorenzo, not about anything. If I'm signing my body over to you, I need to know you'll give me the one thing no man in my life has ever given me."