“Bishop is right there.” I shake my head accidentally bumping our headphones. “Do you like being watched?”
“I like you being watched. Being wanted.” He leans tighter against my side, his fingers plunging deep.
I hold in a gasp, the air tightening my lungs.
“I enjoy the look men get when they see you,” he murmurs against my neck, slaying me. “When they admire how fucking gorgeous you are. How perfect. How compliant.”
I wish I could argue otherwise. That I’m not quick to obey or easily malleable. But in his arms, I’m all those things and more.
A puppet.
A servant.
A slave.
He curls his digits inside me, his entire body pressed to mine, his other hand sliding into my panties to find my clit. “Fuck my fingers, amore mio.”
I’m helpless to deny him.
I want to do this. For him. For me. For happiness that is usually stretched thin and far between.
I close my eyes, grinding into his touch, becoming one with pleasure.
I can’t breathe.
There’s too much… everything.
Bliss. Lust. Lies.
I want him to strip me bare. Not merely of clothes and underwear, but of secrecy and deception. I want him to know me. The real me. The person my family don’t see. The woman my husband never noticed.
“I’m so fucking hard for you, Layla,” he murmurs into my headphones. “I promise you’ll be sore and sated before the day is through.”
I don’t doubt it.
Not for a second.
“I want to taste you,” he growls. “To plant my face between your thighs until you’re lost for breath.”
I picture him doing exactly that. On his knees. My dress raised. My hands in his hair with Bishop a few feet away, able to catch us at any moment.
Oh, God.
My core flutters with an approaching orgasm. “I’m so close.”
“And so sensual.” His touch becomes more firm against my clit, wiggling back and forth, faster and faster. “So tempting. So fucking perfect.”
I pant. Gasp. Wheeze.
“Non ne avrò mai un altro.”
His softly murmured Italian is my undoing. I latch tight to his wrist with my nails, holding him deep inside me as I grind and thrust and shatter.
My pussy convulses, the spasms building and morphing.
“See?” His appreciative growl hums in my ears, the viciousness tattooing my soul. “Perfect.”
I whimper, climbing the crest, riding the wave.
I want to scream for him. Cry. Vow.
I could give him everything in this moment. My promises for the future. My commitment to togetherness even though I told myself this would be temporary.
How can I ever walk away from this? I never want to be without him.
I come down from the peak with clawed fingers and heaving breaths. “You have too much power over me.”
“You have it all wrong, amore mio.” His voice grows somber, his lips once again finding my shoulder for a gentle brush of affection. “Sei quello con tutto il potere.”
22
Layla
We land at a heliport far from the city buildings, my hair scattering from the whoop of the helicopter blades as Matthew leads us to an awaiting town car.
Our driver doesn’t say a word as we glide toward the coast, the sea breeze filling my lungs from Bishop’s open front-seat window, before we pull into a beachside hotel.
“I’ll get us checked in.” Bishop shoves open his door. “I’ll meet you in the restaurant.”
Matthew follows, holding out a hand to assist me in sliding along the back seat to step into the warm sun as a young male bellhop rushes toward us.
“Mr. Langston, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” The boy beams. “Do you have any bags I can help you with?”
“The trunk.” Matthew jerks his chin toward the rear of the vehicle and discreetly slips the man a tip. “Has Lorenzo arrived?”
“Yes, sir. He’s waiting inside.”
It doesn’t surprise me that Matthew is recognized on sight, or that the man he’s meeting is familiar to staff. What concerns me is the slight hint of tension that enters Matthew’s shoulders as he turns to face me, his dark eyes tight with hesitation.
“What’s wrong?” I scrutinize his expression, trying to understand the change in him.
“Come with me.” He grabs both my hands, entwining our fingers. “Come to my meeting.”
I hold my surprise in check, unsure if I should be concerned or appreciative.
This is a far bigger step than I anticipated. A massive switch from the information injunction we’ve had in place. And as much as I want to learn everything there is about him, I know I’m not ready to reciprocate at this level. Not yet.
“Who is it with?”
“An old friend. He’s a mentor of sorts. At least, he used to be.”
“You want me to meet your mentor?” That’s big. Huge.
“I’d be honored, and so would he.” He raises one of our joined hands and kisses my knuckles. “And if you haven’t figured me out by now, the request was a courtesy, but your attendance is compulsory.” He grins and tugs me toward the hotel doors. “You’ll be joining us, Layla. You’ve got two minutes to prepare.”
Two minutes? To prepare to meet his mentor?
“Are you kidding?” I scope my disheveled appearance in the glass windows as we approach. “I look a treat.”
“You better fucking believe it.” He shoves past the doors and leads the way into the reception area. “You always look edible.”
I ignore the heat rushing to my cheeks. The tingle in my belly.
I’m not succumbing to lust right now. Nope. Not again.
“Can we just stop for a minute.” I plant my feet and squeeze his hand, forcing him to comply. “Please.”
He turns to me with a frown. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” I huff a laugh. “This is a big moment for me. And I think it is for you, too.”
The frown deepens, but he doesn’t deny my statement.
“This man is important to you.” It’s not a question. The evidence was his tightening posture when he realized Lorenzo was already here. That he was about to dictate for me to meet someone he cared about. “I don’t want to make a bad first impression.”
He steps forward, wrapping a rough arm around my shoulders to drag me into him, his face finding my hair, his aftershave filling my lungs. “I thought giving you no notice would be easier.” There’s forgiveness in his tone. “He will adore you, Layla. Just as much as I do.”
“And if he doesn’t?” I close my eyes, relaxing into him for the briefest respite.
“Then he’s out of my life,” he murmurs into my hair. “Gone. Done. I won’t spare him another thought.”
“I’d never let you do that.” No woman of worth would. “If you were considering getting rid of Bishop, on the other hand…”
“That’s different.” He snickers, pulling away to guide my hair back behind my ear. “What you get from him isn’t personal. It’s personality.”