He wanted me naked in his bed? He’d have to look me in the eye as he stripped me of his clothing and my choice.
I pulled on his sweatpants, knotted the drawstring as tightly as I could, and threw on a matching black sweatshirt.
As I whirled around to march out of the closet, I stopped cold. My wedding dress hung elegantly on the back of the door, clean and pressed on a cream, padded, satin hanger. I approached it slowly, with bated breath, as if it might dissolve beneath a sigh. I ran the ivory lace through my hands and removed the hanger from its hook to turn it, inspecting the back. The lace that had ripped in a clean line along the column of buttons had been repaired, and the damage was barely noticeable. Somebody very talented—and very fast—had fixed this. But why?
Was it possible Cristiano had felt a shred of remorse upon discovering this had been my mother’s dress?
I saved the thought for another time. Right now, I couldn’t think of any decency that might be buried under his cold demeanor.
With a sound in the next room, I replaced the hanger and walked out of the closet.
Cristiano unbuckled his watch by the bed. He glanced briefly at my outfit, then back down. “We’ll have to work on your listening skills,” he said, his watch clattering on the nightstand.
I continued to my side of the bed and slipped between the sheets before turning my back to him.
But within seconds, he was standing over me.
I stared forward, avoiding him as he took his time unbuttoning and removing his shirt. As he discarded it, I caught the shadowed ridges of his abdominal muscles.
“Look at me.”
I was afraid I’d lose my nerve if I did, but when he reached out, I flinched, rolling onto my back as I raised my eyes to him.
“Let me list all the things you think could stop me but wouldn’t,” he said, peeling the top sheet away from my body. “Sweatpants. Your period. Diego. Your father.”
He ghosted the back of his hand down the front of the sweatshirt. I didn’t even have to feel it to sense his hand stop at the tie of my pants.
“I know what will stop you,” I said.
“Tell me.”
Cristiano wanted to test me. I could play that game, too. He wasn’t the only one who could take us to the edge, but would he push me over . . . or pull me back at the last second?
My heart raced as I let one leg fall open. “Yours.”
His gaze darted to my hand as I placed it on the inside of my thigh. “My what?” he asked hoarsely.
Diego had been right about one thing—Cristiano had somehow convinced himself he was different from the other unforgivable people in this world who played with human lives. He’d played with mine, and he didn’t get to ignore that. “Your father.”
He froze as if a chill had fallen over the room—while my body continued to warm. Even though he towered over me, it felt as if I was the one looking down on him. A shadow passed over his face, and his jaw firmed, its angles sharp enough to cut glass. But nothing sliced as deep as words. “What did you tell me once?” I asked. “Nobody thinks they’re a monster?”
He swallowed with a quick nod.
He hadn’t even touched me, but his magnetic hand continued to hover. I resisted the urge to lift my hips to meet it. “You run the same business your father did on a much larger scale. Somehow, you’ve justified that to yourself, but if nobody else will tell you, I will. You are your father.”
He made a fist, veins winding like vines around his dark forearm. I let my eyes travel up to the solid, thick muscles of a powerful bicep. Tense muscles that looked as if they were on the verge of exploding like his temper. “You’re wrong.”
“I don’t think I am.” And as someone from his past, how did I fit in? Cristiano could’ve had anyone in his bed, but he’d chosen me. Maybe it was only that I meant something to Diego. But perhaps it was more. He’d watched me grow up. He’d protected me from people like him.
His long lashes lowered. The promise of his father was enough to scare him off, I was sure. He unfurled his hand, flexing it. I left my leg open, expecting him to withdraw but tempting him to give in to the darkness behind his eyes.
He stretched his long fingers and brushed the stiff fabric. Reflexively, I grabbed his wrist. I’d called his bluff, and he’d called mine right back. Realizing he was going to touch me, a thread of desire yanked inside me. Hands the size of my head—that had wrapped around men’s throats, had both commanded artillery and cradled me as a baby—wouldn’t relent until they’d made me feel terrifying things, like euphoria. Bliss. Or worse, connection. What if Cristiano made me feel so good that I began to crave—or need—a man I was supposed to fear? Already, I had the unsettling impulse to pull his fingers down so he could soothe this new ache when I should’ve pushed him away.