It’s scarily… romantic. Logically I try to tell myself this isn’t right, that he doesn’t even know me, that no woman should crave the obsession of a man… but the human part of me that just longs to be loved unconditionally holds onto what he says and doesn’t want to let it go.
I mull this over for long minutes, trying to figure out what it all means, trying to figure out where this leaves me. I know now, after being with Mario, that I could never be with a man who is anything but strong and nearly invincible. That I could never respect anyone with less self-respect than Mario, with less conviction than Mario. I could never be with a man that asked permission for everything, and I’m not sure why, but I know that who I am is only complete with him. It’s all kinds of wrong. I don’t know if I’ll ever totally make peace with it in my mind, but I know that I’m definitely not at peace with it now.
Wait. Wait.
The men in my family don’t marry for love?
Marry?
Love?
It’s like my brain finally caught up with my heart.
“Oh, right,” I snap at him. “They don’t love for fun, they love for convenience, don’t they? You can’t become king of the mob unless you have a bride at your side, and of course you want some kind of brainless submissive woman who will do anything you say. Well, news flash. That ain’t me.” I brush angrily at the tears on my cheeks and turn away from him.
But snapping at him isn’t the way to shut this guy down. Not sure there is a way.
We’re high in the air by now, so high I can see clouds below us, and because we were in the middle of our conversation, I never really even realized that we’d taken off. My ears begin to pop, and it’s the last thing I register before he picks me up bodily in his arms and tosses me over his shoulder. I’m jostled and out of breath from being flung around so I don’t even know where we’re going at first, because I assume like most jets this one is tiny.
But I assumed wrong, of course. Like all things Rossi, this thing is huge. Extravagant. Worth millions of dollars. At the back of this plane is a room, and when he opens the door with a flourish, he reveals a small but elegant bedroom.
Of course.
“You have a bedroom on a jet?”
“Of course we do. Saves time and money.”
I have no idea how he works that equation out, but whatever. My brain, the logical steel trap that it is, hasn’t even begun to process why he’s carrying me physically into this room, until he drops me on the bed, pins me beneath him, and silences me with the fullness of his mouth on mine.
I’m pissed. I don’t want sex right now. I don’t want to be seduced or fucked and I don’t want to come. I want to slap his face, claw at his skin, shove him off of me, and go home. I want to go home.
“Let me go,” I grit out when his mouth comes off of mine. He only brings his mouth to my ear.
“Be honest,” he says. “We’re already forty thousand miles up in the air. There is no going home right now. Do you wanna fight all the way to Tuscany, or do you want me to fuck the brat right out of you?”
“I’m not being a brat.” I slap at his chest.
“Don’t raise a hand to me,” he growls. “You know better than that.” It comes as no surprise to then find myself stripped, bared, and over his knee in a matter of seconds. He’s an expert at this. Probably been waiting for an excuse to paddle my ass. I scream at the first angry smack of his hand across my butt. His hands are so big he covers both cheeks at once, and within seconds after the second, third, and fourth slap of his palm, it feels like my skin is on fire. I push against him with everything that I have, but I can’t get away. He holds me down hard and continues the onslaught.
“Let me go!” I scream. “I don’t want this. This isn’t sexy, this isn’t fun, I hate you!” I know even as I say the words that they’re a lie. I hate being helpless. I hate not knowing what’s coming. I hate feeling out of complete control and not knowing what to expect next. Mario is just the easiest target.
“Keep it up, doll,” he says with a trace of smugness in his voice. “I can spank your ass all the way to Tuscany.”
Again, he slams his palm on my backside. Again, pain ricochets across my skin, and I hate to admit that he’s ignited a flame inside me, brought on by the heat of the moment, my compromised position, his bold, unabashed dominance over me.