Hold You Against Me (Stripped 4)

It’s a delicious squeeze, and I shudder in his arms. “I’m ready. I’m ready.”

He shakes his head slowly, and I could cry. You aren’t in control here, bella. And I feel out of control, my body burning hot and moving against him on its own, my mind a haze of kisses and warmth. I’ve never felt a man inside me before, but there’s a new emptiness, my inner muscles clenching around nothing.

“I plan to use you all night, understand? I’m going to touch you everywhere, taste you everywhere.” He pulls something from his pocket, small and black. I flinch when a silver blade flips open.

He places the pocketknife beneath the lacy bra strap, dull metal against my skin. A quick slice and the cup leans away from my breast. He cuts away the other side and the material drifts to the floor.

I flush as he draws a fingertip over the slope of my breast. He catches a nipple between his forefinger and thumb, pinching softly. He saw me the other night in the conservatory, but it was dark there. While not completely bright, there’s enough light from the lamp by the table that he can see me clearly. His touch is achingly thorough, circling the full weight of my breasts, teasing my nipples to hard peaks.

He explores my shoulders and back and stomach with the same intensity, as if mapping my body’s terrain. When I shiver, he stops and teases out another reaction—and I realize he is mapping me. He finds the places that make me sigh and shiver, that draw a whimper from me, that drag a groan from my throat.

He turns me away from him, and I feel a large palm caress down my back. He strokes my butt softly, finding every inch of the plush curves. Then his finger presses between to the tight knot of skin.

I yelp, pulling my hips away to escape.

“Shhh,” he says. “Not tonight.”

Even the suggestion leaves me shaken. I’m not as scared of him touching me there as I am of facing away from him. Then he does something even scarier. His hands are gentle as he bends me over the bed. He runs light touches down the side of my body and cups my butt.

He’s not hurting you. I can’t help the way I freeze up or the slight moan of despair that escapes me.

He stops moving behind me, and I feel his concern in the silence that follows.

“Clara?” he asks, his tone careful. “I’m not going to make you do this. I won’t touch you back here.”

His words are gentle. I know he’s not making me do anything right now, but panic claws at my throat. It’s too alike, being in this house, being bent over. I fight the bonds at my wrists as hard as I can, struggling to get free. There are horrible gasping sounds coming from somewhere, and I realize it’s me.

Spots dance in front of my eyes. I can’t move, can’t breathe.

I find myself in Giovanni’s arms, right-side up. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s only his hands holding me now, that he’s keeping my arms down but only so I don’t flail. When I quiet, he releases me, using his hand to soothe me, cradle me, love me.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my temple. Some of the words he says in Italian, others I understand. “You’re okay. You’re with me, and I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

My breathing evens out in slow, painful degrees. I clutch at the fabric of his shirt, not caring that I’m naked, not caring that he’s my enemy. Right now he’s the only solid thing in a world made of waves and blistering sun. He’s my anchor.

My voice is shaky when I manage, “I’m sorry.”

“No, bella. Don’t be. It’s my fault. I went too fast. I wasn’t careful with you.”

I don’t want to explain that it wasn’t his fault, because then I’d have to explain whose fault it is. He sounds so genuinely regretful that it’s hard not to spill the truth. “Can we pretend like that didn’t happen?”

His laugh is rusty. “I’m not sure I can forget that. Not ever.”

This is exactly why I didn’t want him to know. He would look at me differently. And I’m afraid that if someone else knew, I would look at myself differently too. “Please.”

He pauses, contemplative. His surface is calm, but I can sense something hot roiling within him. “Clara, I have to ask you. The way you reacted just now. It makes me wonder… Has anyone ever hurt you?”

A ripple of fear runs through me. No no no.

“I’ve never… I’m a virgin, if that’s what you mean.” At least that much is true. He seems like he’s going to push the matter, so I reach up and press my lips against his. “Gio. I want to be with you.”

Part of me knows I’m falling into my old habits, pleasing someone out of fear. It’s not the same as it was with my father, but in some ways it is. He trained me to be the perfect Italian wife, and I’ve learned my lessons well.

Giovanni shifts, and I think he’s going to kiss me. Or maybe bear me down onto the bed, take what we both want him to. Instead he sets me gently on the cool sheets. Then he reaches down for the blanket, tucking it around me.

I shove away the butter soft cotton. “Wait. No.”

He’s already walking away from me, showing his broad shoulders and trim waist. God, he must have put on fifty pounds of pure muscle since I saw him last. He’s different in so many ways, vital ways. I can’t love him as the boy he was before. I can only love the man he is now.