by Rose, Renee
“I gotta work. You’ll stay here. I’m keeping you close until I figure out what to do with you.”
She shoots to her feet. “What’s to figure out?” She spreads her hands. “I promise I won’t say a word.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your word for it.” I say as I walk to the bedroom and grab the phone out of the drawer where I stashed it. “As soon as I’m sure of it, I’ll let you go.”
She looks at the phone in my hand, wariness clouding her features. “Are you going to tie me up again?”
I arch a brow. “Do I need to?”
“Uh, no. Nope. Huh uh.”
I’m pretty sure she thinks she’s going to walk right out of here as soon as I leave. What she doesn’t know is that I put a security guy on the door. She won’t be going anywhere. Not unless I want her to.
“Good. Watch some TV. Relax. I’ll be back to check on you.”
She sucks on her lower lip as she watches me leave. I throw a wink from the door, but I’m not feeling as jaunty as it probably looks.
In fact, I’m uneasy about the whole thing. About leaving Corey prisoner. And also about letting her go. And I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me, but I think I’m actually concerned about her state of mind—her happiness.
No, it’s more than that.
I’m fucking worried she’ll never forgive me for this.
And that is downright unlike me.
* * *
Corey
First thing I do after Stefano leaves is get in the shower and turn the water on hot. I need time to think.
Do I just leave? Is he testing me here? It seems like a mafia thing to test people. He’s deciding if I’m trustworthy based on whether I follow his directions and stay put?
On the other hand, I’m his fucking prisoner! And if I have a chance to get away I should, right?
Only what then? I’m not going to the cops. I meant what I told him. I would never in a million years get on a witness stand against a Tacone. That’s suicide. I don’t care if there is a witness relocation program. Besides, Sondra’s marrying his brother. These guys really are about to become family by marriage. I’m not going to snitch on my family.
And yeah, Sondra’s boyfriend would be more family to me than my own dad. Easily.
So yeah, let’s say I bolt. Then what? I want to keep my job here. I have no desire to go to the cops. I also have no desire to have Stefano Tacone put me on his wanted list.
Sort of seems like I stay put. Besides my lack of freedom, I’m not suffering here. I’ve been fed. He said he’s sending clothing. I’ve had my sexual needs tended in a blow-my-mind kinda way.
I shampoo and condition my hair. Unfortunately, there’s no razor. I’m sure if I asked him for one, he’d bring it.
Which is sort of fun.
When I get over being freaked out about what’s happening, it’s actually quite fun. Thrilling, even.
I turn off the water and grab a towel.
A tap sounds at the door.
Shit. Must be the clothes. I wrap the towel under my armpits and open the front door a crack.
“Oh, sorry, ma’am.” A security guard turns red in the face as he thrusts a Bellissimo bag toward me. “They brought this for you.” He averts his gaze, staring past my shoulder instead of looking at me.
“Are you guarding this door?” I demand, suddenly outraged. I spent all that time deciding not to leave and it turns out I had no choice, anyway.
Fucking Tacone.
The guard turns even redder. “Mr. Tacone’s orders, ma’am. I’m sorry.” He drops the bag inside the suite and pulls the door shut in my face.
Harumph.
I pick up the bag and rummage through it. It’s a tank top and yoga pants. No panties. It will have to do. I get dressed and make the bed, for lack of anything better to do. And because I’m one of those neat freaks who prefers things to be in their place.
Then I set back and do as Stefano suggested—watch TV. What the hell, there’s nothing better to do.
At 1:00 p.m., room service arrives with a variety of lunch options. At 3:00 p.m., Stefano finally returns.
I bite back the “it took you long enough” in favor of something more amicable. “How are things out there?”
“Fine.” He looks around the room as if for clues for what I’ve been up to. “What do you need here? Anything?”
Oh shit. He’s just stopping in. Ready to head back out any minute. I don’t want to stay cooped up here all day alone.
I clear my throat. “I, uh, could use some exercise. You know—I’m in the outfit, but nowhere to work out.”
Stefano frowns and glances toward the door. Then he shakes his head.
“What?”
“Fine.” A note of annoyance clips the word. “I’ll take you to the fitness center.” He stalks to the bedroom. When he returns, he’s changed from his thousand-dollar gunmetal gray pinstriped suit into a soft hunter green t-shirt and black workout shorts. The worn t-shirt stretches around the muscles of his chest.
I resist the urge to paw the air.
“Come on, princess. I don’t have all day.”
I walk to the door. “Is it princess now? Funny, I’m not feeling much like a princess.”
He pops my ass. “Stop sulking. Walk.”
I flip him the bird over my shoulder, pushing my luck.
I push open the door and the guard steps out of the way, nodding to Stefano.
“Take a break. I’ll message you on the comms when I need you again.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Tacone.”
Stefano answers his phone, responding to some casino business with short, decisive answers, then switches to a comms device, giving more orders as we step toward the elevator. He reaches past me and hits the elevator button for up instead of down.
“Where are we going?” I ask. The fitness center is on the tenth floor, below us.
“Private gym.” Stefano flashes me a model-worthy grin and holds an arm out to usher me into the elevator.
“Oh. I didn’t know there was a private gym here.”
“There are lots of things you don’t know about the Bellissimo,” he says, circling an arm behind my back like we’re on a date.
We get off on the 18th floor and Stefano leads me to a small but beautifully appointed, air-conditioned gym. Mirrors cover every wall and the floor is springy gym mat material. The smell of eucalyptus and pine lightly tickle my nose. I look around and zero in on the treadmill. The truth is, I’m not actually your work-out-at-the-gym type. I was just trying to get Stefano to let me out of the room. I don’t even know how to use anything here besides the stationary bike and the treadmill.
I climb on and hit the buttons until it turns on.
Stefano gets on the rowing machine and rows like he means business.
Oh damn—those muscles, flexing. Sheer beauty. Something flutters deep in my belly. Seeing the power in that body, the ease with which he uses it makes me remember every time he’s touched me. How gentle he’s been considering what that body’s capable of. I relive every moment of struggling with him in the elevator in the parking garage. The first spanking. The second.
The orgasms he’s delivered.
My nipples chafe against the inside of the tank top’s shelf bra, hard as diamonds.
I don’t know what it is about Stefano Tacone, but the raw animal attraction can’t be denied.
So yeah, I guess he can keep me tied up in his room. For at least another day.
He finishes with the rowing machine and works his way around each weight-training station until I’m damp between the thighs and drooling for him. The last station is behind me, but I watch him in the mirror, closing my lips around the sighs that keep trying to slip out.
He finishes and walks right up behind me, stepping on the edges of the treadmill and reaching past me to turn it off. His body is flush against mine, the bulge of his cock hitting my lower back, his beefy arms caging me.
“Think yo
u can just eye-fuck me for an hour without repercussions, bella?” He reaches around and cups my mons, pressing the heel of his hand against my clit the same way I do when I’m masturbating. Apparently not satisfied with the full handful he just took, he shifts to slip his hand inside my yoga pants. “Fanculo, baby. You’re so ripe for me.”
I catch sight of my face in the mirror, mouth open, abandon already creeping over my expression. When I realize he’s looking, too, I snap my jaw shut, but he plunges a finger inside me.
“Stefano,” I pant.
He dips two more fingers in, and I’m already on the edge, about to come. “What, baby?”
“Someone could come in.”
“Nah, I locked the doors, beautiful. I’d never let you be seen like that.” He pulls his fingers out and yanks my tank top off. “That is, unless you’re into being seen. But I don’t think you are. Take those pants off.”
I obey. Apparently I’m getting used to being stripped naked for him. “What makes you so sure?”
He fishes a condom out of his gym shorts pocket—which means he planned this from the start—and rips it open. Without dropping his shorts, he pulls out his dick and rolls it on, then twirls his finger to tell me to turn back around. “You’re proud but you don’t seek attention. You like to control how you’re seen and when. You’re not a submissive.” He bends both my arms behind my back and pushes my chest down on the controls for the treadmill. He leans over, lips at my ear. “But you do like to be tied up and taken hard.”
“No, I don’t,” I insist but he’s inching into me. My mouth opens wide again, like a porn star. He retreats, inches in again—taking his sweet time. “Jesus, Stefano, are you ever going to start?”
He chuckles as he pushes in, but then he doesn’t move, just reaches around and diddles my clit. His other hand still loosely holds my forearms together at my back.
I arch back against him, desperate to take him deeper, to get satisfaction.
“You know why a woman like you wants to be tied up?”
“Fuck you, Stefano.”
“You mean fuck me, don’t you? Do you need another lesson in begging?”
“No,” I pant, need burning into anger, the fever licking between my thighs, up my neck, across my breasts.
He doesn’t move.
“Oh God,” I moan, already conceding defeat. “Please fuck me. Hard.”
“Of course, bella. Who would refuse you that?” He palms my breast and pinches my nipple. “Especially when you look so beautiful taking my cock.” He draws back and drills into me, hard.
I sigh in relief.
Using my elbows for leverage, he withdraws and slams in, again and again.
“You haven’t answered me.” Another brutal thrust. My inner thighs quiver. I go up on my tiptoes, thrust my ass back at him. “Do you know why you like to be restrained? And don’t say you don’t, because I’m inside your sopping pussy right now, baby. I know you’re three strokes from an orgasm.”
“Ugn.” I make an unintelligible sound and then whimper, closing my lids.
“Open your eyes, Corey. I want to see those baby blues in the mirror when I make you come. When I own you so completely you forget your name.”
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 i
s. 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.”
