But that smile has barely faded when someone grabs me from behind.
I open my mouth to scream but a big hand closes over it and I feel the unmistakable metal of a gun against my ribs. I’m lifted off my feet and carried backward to the wall, the heavy flashlight clanging to the floor. I try to bite the hand clamped tight over my mouth and also find kicking is useless, like kicking a brick wall.
It’s Cristiano. Even in the dark I know. Even injured, he’s too big, too strong. He’s not gentle when he pushes me up against the wall, his forearm at the back of my neck keeping me pinned, the gun brushing my temple.
“I could have killed you,” his deep, low voice reverberates against my ear. While my heart is racing, he seems not at all out of breath.
He uncocks the gun. At least I hope that’s what the sound is.
My hands are pressed flat to the wall, my cheek smashed against it. I’m having trouble breathing.
As if sensing that, he takes his forearm off me and spins me around. He’s keeping me in place, hands on my shoulders, as he looks me over, forehead furrowed, eyes dark.
“What are you doing down here, Scarlett?”
“Did you know it was me when you body slammed me like that into the wall?”’
“Count yourself lucky I didn’t shoot first then investigate,” he says rather than answering me.
I look at him. He’s naked from the waist up and I see blood, just a trace of it, high on the inside of his left arm.
“I asked you a question,” he says.
“I—” I look at the gun in his hand and my mouth goes dry.
Shoot first. Jesus. He’d have done that? Is he that wound up? Am I surprised? He was just attacked at a public event.
He tucks the pistol out of sight into the back of his jeans and looks me over, forehead furrowing. I wonder if that’s because of my clothing choice.
“What are you doing down here?” he asks again, meeting my eyes, his a little unfocused.
“I,” I start but stop. He’s close enough that I smell whiskey on his breath. “Are you drunk?”
He gives me his signature growl. I swear he’s part caveman. Then he steps back, stumbling once before turning to glance at me, then away again. He walks back to his study.
“Hey. I asked you a question.” I follow him but he’s worlds away. When we enter the study, I see the nearly empty bottle of whiskey on his desk.
“You almost killed me. You owe me an answer.”
He turns to me, eyebrows raised like he’s surprised but there’s something else. Something off. He’s distracted, like he was earlier when he got that message on his phone.
“I don’t owe you anything,” he says.
“You pulled a gun on me.”
“You’re supposed to be in bed. What are you doing down here?”
“I wanted to see my brother.”
He shakes his head. “You are so fucking stubborn. Do you know that?”
“I’ve been told a time or two.” I fold my arms across my chest.
He looks me over again. “I bought you clothes. Nice clothes. What the fuck is this?”
“You said if I need anything, I should add it to your order.”
“I didn’t mean this. Don’t wear it again. And go to bed. Don’t fucking come out of your room again like that. I could have fucking killed you.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be walking around with a loaded gun while drunk. If I’m going to have to marry you and live here with you—”
“We’re not playing house, Scarlett.”
“If I’m going to live here with you,” I start again, “We need to get a few things straight. First—”
I never get to finish though. Or even start, really. He’s on me so fast I’m still taking a breath in to continue speaking. The door slams shut, and I’m pressed against it, Cristiano against me, one hand in my hair tugging my head back and the other sliding under my hoodie to close around the curve of my hip.
“Do you ever just shut up?” he growls the question into my mouth before he kisses me so hard, all I can do is suck in his whiskey breath and feel his soft lips. “You shouldn’t have come down here,” he says, kissing me harder, pushing my pants down just far enough that they slip off my hips and pool around my ankles. “You’re going to make me do things you don’t want me to do.”
My eyelids fly open to find his eyes on me as he slips his hand between my legs and cups the crotch of my panties.
I gasp.
We stand there like that for a long minute just staring at each other. My hands rest on his chest but don’t push him away. He’s about an inch from my face, barely, and he looks fucked up. Not angry. Something else. Just messed up.
“You shouldn’t have come down here,” he growls again.
“Let me go and I’ll go away.”
“Too late for that,” he pauses, his fingers moving a little. “I haven’t had a woman in ten years.”
I swallow and push against him, knowing I won’t be able to budge him, still not sure I want to.
He moves his hand a little, sliding it up over my panties and to my belly. The pads of his fingers are rough against my skin. My hands curl around his shoulders but I’m not sure if it’s to hurt him, to get him off me, or what. But if I’m hurting the shoulder he dislocated, he doesn’t seem to care.
“Ten years,” he repeats.
He slips his hand into the waistband of my panties and I gasp as his fingers curl into the little mound of hair there, then down. Down to my sex. A sound comes from deep inside his chest. Something animal.
“Cristiano—” I start, his name a breathy whisper.
“And what do I get?” He moves his fingers a little and my mouth falls open to take in a shallow breath. “A virgin.”
I swallow hard because his thumb is on my clit and two fingers are smearing my wetness onto me.
“A virgin when what I need is to fuck a whore.”
I gasp but when he takes my lower lip between his teeth, I close my eyes and let my head fall back. He releases my lip and kisses my neck, leaving a trail of small bites to my ear.
“I’m going to make you scream,” he whispers.
I should stop him. Drag his arm off me. But his fingers are doing something to my clit that feels better than when I do it to myself. His hand is so big, the pads of his fingers rougher than my own fingers, and I’m already soaked. Needy. So needy.
But then he pulls his hand out of my panties and steps back.
I stumble forward on an exhale of air I’d been holding. He catches me, sets his hands on the neck of my hoodie and in an instant, it’s off. Ripped in two, sliding off my arms.
“What—”
I look down at the ruined top, then back at him.
He glances down at my breasts which are exposed now. I wasn’t wearing a bra. I’m a B-cup on a really, really good day and today isn’t one of those days. My first thought—because I’m a dummy—is to wonder if he’s disappointed. Although it’s not the first time he’s seen them, but that time was different. Very different.
I move to cover them, but he takes hold of my hands, bringing my arms to my sides and looks again. It’s a moment before he shifts his gaze back to my eyes, my mouth. He smears his fingers across my lips, and I taste myself. I should be outraged. Humiliated.