by Lana Sky
Instead, I grapple for the pen and write.
So kissing isn’t corruption?
Or seeing me naked or telling me to touch myself. The list goes on and on, but in the world of Donatello Vanici, those count merely as a game—one he thinks I’m too bashful to play. But he’s wrong.
In all other ways, he’s stripped my identity, but he can’t break this one last boundary. The same reckless impulse that infected me in the elevator strikes again. I step away from the desk, dropping the pen. Using that same hand, I grip the neckline of my dress, tugging on the fabric the way he exposed his scars to Kisa.
My display isn’t quite so dramatic. This body doesn’t contain nearly the same number of secrets his does. The cool air tickles my exposed skin, rousing a reaction I can’t suppress. He notices, his eyes darting from my face, to my body and back.
I’ve made my point but, breathing heavily, I keep going, dragging the fabric down as far as I can. My breasts creep beneath the modest neckline first. Then one nipple. Another.
Narrowed to slits, his eyes rebel, raking over my body to snatch glimpses of what he claims to not desire.
The attention is proof enough—he’s a liar.
I can read it so clearly in his gaze; it’s laughable. How his eyes narrow over my bared breasts, tracing a path down my stomach as if he can’t help himself.
“Enough,” he hisses, his voice so detached I stiffen. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”
Shame nibbles away at my resolve. Maybe I’m wrong? Or not. He’s always been like this, able to easily turn the tables.
The only way to ever defeat him has been via one method, and one method only.
Play dirty.
Slowly, I raise my hand, dragging my fingers sloppily over my own skin. Why exactly? I don’t have a clear aim in mind—not until I see his eyes widen. The tip of my index finger is nearing the swell of my breast. Closer…
I’ve never explored myself like this. Not even that night in his bed did I feel this exposed. On display. Doubt creeps in. I almost give in to the overwhelming impulse urging me to stop. Hide.
Somehow, the sight of a muscle lurching in his jaw gives me the strength needed to keep going, grazing the peak entirely. A jolt shoots through me as his eyes cut to slits.
So, I do it again.
The strange sensation continues to build as I swipe over the tip of a nipple a third time. I hate the feeling. But I repeat the action, watching him all the while.
Again.
Again.
I barely see him move before his fingers latch over my wrist, ripping my hand away. “Don’t—”
He breaks off, releasing me, but the reaction is proof enough. After all this time, he can’t bring himself to tarnish his precious little Safy.
How noble of him.
Tears sting my eyes, and for a second, I almost can’t swallow down the wave of bile that rises up my throat. It’s sick to think this way. Objectively I know it’s insane. Disgusting. Wrong.
But I’m not that girl anymore. No one can ever use that past against me, least of all him.
He taunts me with corruption.
I’ll give him something far better than that. My head is throbbing with the weight of the twisted, insane need for revenge—but it feels better than wallowing in hate.
I’ll make him sully the part of me he’s left untouched. I’ll make him destroy me.
He takes a step back as if reading my intentions. So, I move forward, clinging to this newfound power. Step by step, I invade his personal space.
He lets me come close. Close enough to feel his breath. To choke on his scent and be reminded in vivid detail of the other night. As his eyes darken, I even get a glimpse of the fleeting look I saw in him then. Fear.
Then he blinks, and he’s ice. “You think you can seduce me?” His breath is hot against my exposed throat. “Stick to the boys around your little manor. You have some appeal as a captive toy to dangle over Mischa’s head, but apart from that? You aren’t woman enough.”
I almost falter. Almost. Any other time, I’d retreat to lick my wounds. He’s anticipating as much, lowering his gaze to my mouth as if waiting for my so-called tell to appear.
Instead, I lift my hand to his jaw, pressing my fingers against the hard plane of it. His frown is an electric twitch of muscle, but I keep going, copying the way he stroked my mouth, tracing the seam of his lips with my thumb. His are larger than mine, alarmingly soft. I’m nearing the middle when they part, his breath like fire.
I don’t remember inching closer. Maybe he’s the one that closes the gap first, bringing our chests within a hair’s width of distance? The front of my dress feels tighter, the fabric sandpaper against parts of me that tense involuntarily. My breasts. My nipples.
Alarm is a living thing I have to choke down. Once I do, I try to ignore everything but the need to keep touching him. To prove…
What?
That I affect him. He’s forced to cock his head to maintain eye contact, and when his nostrils flare, I know it’s not a normal breath. He’s inhaling me and me alone.
The longer I extend the contact, the more unstable he becomes. In a flash of white, he bares his teeth as if to bite. Then his lips spread further apart, mouthing the pad of my finger.
I’ve yanked my hand back before I even realize it. “Don’t play with fire, little Stepanova—” that same tongue traces the rim of his mouth. “This is a game you should want to lose.”
But I’ve always been a sore loser. He is, too—and we both were prone to cheating just to avoid defeat.
I don’t think. I just move, sliding the same finger I had at his mouth into my own. I can’t explain why. To see his reaction, or so I tell myself. Not to taste him. Regardless, the mingled flavors of salt and musk explode over my tongue, and my thoughts scatter.
I’ve tasted him before, but never like this—a carefully controlled dose of Donatello Vanici. He is all the things fairy tales warn their readers to avoid—the same stories he used to read to me years ago. Vile nuance. Bitter aftertaste.
A flavor that goes on and on, igniting a trail down my throat, through my spine, pooling between my legs…
I despise my body’s reaction, how my belly quivers, heart pounds. I should choke. I start to rip the digit out, but then I see his expression, and my brain spirals all over again.
In a violent tandem, his nostrils flare and deflate. Flare and deflate.
Then he moves. Two broad strides bring him closer, and there is no escape. My jaw is in his grasp, helpless against the force he applies to wrench it back. Before I can move, his thumb nudges my lips apart, demanding entry to steal his own taste.
I bite down automatically, catching the meaty pad between my teeth, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch.
I don’t relent, applying more pressure. More. More.
His eyes glint almost as if daring me to keep going. Hurt him. Harder. More!
My jaw aches with the pressure. Eventually, hot liquid floods my tongue, tasting like salt and copper. Disgust rips through me, but I don’t pull away. I can’t.
Not until he does, dragging his thumb against my cheek as he retreats. My heart hammers as he turns away, putting his back to me. I swipe my hand across my face, choking down the mysterious liquid. When I look at my fingers, they’re streaked with scarlet.
“Let’s talk about why you’re here—Vincenzo,” he says, distracting from my building horror. I watch him, fighting to get my breathing under control. In and Out. Out and In...
His composure is enviable. He’s stone again, and doubt gnaws away at the back of my skull. Was it all an act? Maybe I don’t affect him.
“You get to pry into my past,” he says, his voice level once more. “In return, you keep your mouth shut.”
My mind struggles to keep up. Pry. It’s a grudging offer, but I can see through it to the unspoken dare underneath. Play my role. Stay within the box he’s set for me. Uphold his lie. Remain a martyr.
; And most importantly? Don’t test him.
I remember the way he relished unnerving me back at his warehouse. His initial tactic? Strip me down to nothing and watch me squirm. He mocks me for interpreting that as desire, but would he feel the same if the tables were turned?
The thought is so dangerous I can’t seriously consider it. So, I don’t think at all. My knees bend, dropping me to the floor. With my eyes on his hips, I can’t discern his reaction—my only clue is his sharp, startled intake of air.
With single-minded focus, I reach for the waistband of his pants, and he seems to levitate. Before I can even touch the zipper of his fly, he snags my wrist in his fist.
“Don’t.” His voice is a roll of thunder, perilously deep.
Despite every nerve in my body warning me not to, I risk looking up. Viewed through my lashes, he’s more predatory than ever. A beast caught in a trap, fighting for survival. Does he submit?
Or does he chew his own leg off to escape?
He’s considering the latter. With every passing second, his grip tightens, the nails slicing into the meat of my wrist.
I don’t expect him to tug, forcing my hand against his waistband. To test me, I realize. He wants me to feel the risk up close. How the fabric is stretched taut over the muscles of his hips…
When my finger strikes the polished surface of the clasp at the cusp of his fly, a jolt runs down my arm. I start to pull away—but that’s what he wants.
So, I prod that clasp instead. His harsh exhale scrapes the air, urging my focus outward to a million other sounds I didn’t notice until now. Murmured voices. Creaking wood. The wind lashing at the exterior of this old house. Each faint noise forms a cocoon around us, as if we’re separate from the rest of this world in this single, twisted moment.
“You’d suck my cock to prove a point?” he grates, and I shiver in response.
I’m not afraid—or so I tell myself.
I’ve seen his cock before, an image I’ve tried so hard to suppress. A dangerous length of flesh and muscle, shrouded by a thatch of dark curls. A weapon young women are warned about from the earliest age and taught to fear. Revere.
Up close, would that organ truly hold such power?
He’s seen all I am. He’s ripped my clothing, stripped me bare, and shoved his own finger inside me. How cruel is it that exploring him isn’t nearly so simple?
It’s a journey through silken fabric that doesn’t want to conform to my touch and a metal zipper that resists when I tug it.
The biggest barrier in my way is the man himself, exhaling so harshly each breath resembles a growl.
“Stop.”
I don’t. I can’t. I keep tugging. Ruthlessly, persistently pulling until the material finally gives way, revealing darker cotton beneath. Boxers. A bulge shapes the front of them, and I balk, my face heating.
“Enough.” Donatello’s hand returns to my shoulder, gripping hard enough to sting. “Don’t embarrass yourself, little Stepanova,” he warns, yanking me to my feet. In the same motion, he refastens his pants and turns away. “You want to play blackmail? Well, then you win. I suggest you enjoy your spoils of war while you can.”
My body resonates with the threat, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of letting him know that. Swaying on my feet, I turn to the desk. The only way to put distance between us is to circle around to the other end of the table, utilizing the wood as a barrier.
I win, he said?
Aware of his gaze, I open the drawer he kept the letters in. I’m tempted to grab them all and run—anything to get another glimpse into the man he used to be.
Instead, I withdraw only the one he initially offered, denting the page with how tightly I hold it.
It feels like a live wire, unnaturally hot as I press it to my chest. Before I move from the desk completely, I grab the pen and a fresh sheet of paper as well.
Wordlessly, he watches me leave, my spoils in tow.
And we both retreat, aware that yet another round of this war has ended in a draw.
10
Don
She isn’t the reason why I fall asleep at my desk. I’m not afraid of her sneaking into my bed again, determined to suck my cock for real. No. I’m merely waiting for our next round to commence.
The parting look she sent my way all but guaranteed our game isn’t over yet—but therein lies the real mystery. What the hell is she playing at?
Does she even know… One minute she’s coming at me with a knife. The next, she’s on her knees. Touching me. Flashing those angry eyes when I deny her.
My cock throbs, threatening to burst through my damn zipper. Not because of her. Any woman with her mouth at the ready would trigger the same reaction. A pulse shoots through my abdomen as if to call me out—liar. My cock pulses in agreement. Only one woman is on my mind now. I still see her, those pouty lips glistening wet, her hands reaching for me…
Fuck. A cold shower is in my near future if I plan on meeting Mischa with my dignity intact. I always could use my hand to get myself off, but that’s what she wants. To get inside my head and play with fire.
Maybe I should let the little Stepanova burn?
I toy with the thought of dragging her beneath me, forcing her to put that mouth to work.
And, as if on cue, soft footsteps echo from the hall, and my head shoots up, my gaze on the open door. Before she can even show her face, I preempt her, “Back for more, little—”
“More what?”
Fabio appears in the doorway in lieu of a sly blond. He looks bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, his hair slicked back, his designer suit perfectly tailored, another shopping bag in tow. In fact, he seems too polished.
Not to mention, he’s eyeing the wall behind me rather than meeting my gaze. He’s hiding something.
“You look ready to get this shitshow started,” I remark without calling him out.
“I hope you’re ready,” he says, finally glancing me over. His eyes linger over my hands as if he’s making sure that nothing sharp or dangerous is within my reach. All he finds is blood and scabbed knuckles.
His eyebrow shoots up. “What the hell happened to you?”
I flex my fingers one by one. The Salvatore girl’s blood is still smeared across them. “I played nursemaid.”
Later, I’ll dissect the girl’s actions. Not only did she sneak into my room and steal the knife, but the nurse who treated her wound implied it was self-inflicted.
“Do I even want to know? Anyway, here—” Fabio withdraws the Librium from his suit pocket and fishes out a capsule. As I choke it down, he adds, “According to your outfit, you aren’t ready, as usual. Take this and then go get dressed. We’re meeting with Mischa in an hour and—”
“Cut to the chase, Fab.” I rise to my feet as color floods his cheeks. “Spit it out. If your eyes dart anymore, they’ll fly out of your head. What’s wrong?”
He grits his teeth. Then he sighs. “Mischa has returned to the table with a…request.”
“Oh?”
I don’t like his tone. I don’t like the way he keeps eyeing the doorway, either.
I’m surprised Mischa didn’t take the girl from the hospital. Either he’s had a change of heart, or he’s found another way to derail our “engagement.”
“And?”
Fabio exhales, grasping for an edge of the desk. “I wasn’t even going to tell you,” he admits. “Frankly, it’s something I could arrange without your consent via my contacts, though it would be violating several medical privacy laws—”
“What, Fabio?”
“He wants a blood test.”
I frown. “Of Willow? Let him have one. I can assure you that I am not the father.”
Perhaps this is Mischa’s way of reminding me of that boundary? The sick fuck. I wasn’t her father, but I took her in when she had no one else.
And in the end, I hurt her worse than Gino ever did.
“On both of you,” Fabio clarifies, now facing the wall. “Says it’s to…cl
ear the air as to the nature of your relationship.”
I ignore that obvious bait, paying closer attention to the fact that he still can’t look at me. “What aren’t you saying?”
“He…”
“Fabio!”
“Okay, okay.” Finally, he mutters, “He wants the testing extended to Olivia… And Nico.”
“What?”
I see red. I taste the rage, welling over my tongue like blood. I black out. Go numb. The next thing I know, I’m barging into the hallway, unable to contain the restless energy that demands I do something. Punch something. Stab. Fight.
“I want you to think rationally, Donatello,” I hear Fabio warn, but he’s smart enough to keep his distance.
Think rationally.
How the hell can I? All I see is Olivia’s beautiful face, Nico in her arms. Their blood all over this fucking floor…
I close my eyes, leaning against the wall as the world around me spins like a fucking merry-go-round. When I re-open them, it’s still spinning, an endless, dizzying blur.
“Donatello,” Fabio says softly. “Hear me out—”
“You were going to do it anyway.” I’m surprised to find the guilt openly expressed on his face. “Son of a bitch! You were going to let that fucker toy with your own damn sister’s body. Why?”
“Why?” With a shift of his stance, he transforms into the stoic accountant, only concerned with the fucking logistics. “Because I loved Olivia more than you will ever know, but she’s gone. Vincenzo, on the other hand? He’s still here, and I would give my own soul to ensure that fact remains true.”
“You…” I take a step toward him, my hand clenching.
“D-Don?” Fabio stiffens, raising his arm in defense. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him afraid.
Could I hit him?
My knuckles crack as I raise my fist, eyeing his unblemished jaw. I pivot instead, striking the wall. Pain rips up my arm, but it’s not painful enough. So, I hit it again.
Again.
“Donatello!”
“Mischa started this,” I bellow over him. “If anyone should be kowtowing to ridiculous demands, it’s him. Why the fuck are you making me play like this is an even fight? It’s not. I have every right to kill him if I wanted.”
