Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Her full lips pressed to a thin line. “You’re being very presumptuous. What makes you think you can stop me from doing anything?”
“You’re mine.” The declaration left me on a growl, and a few of the other guests turned to stare. I tried to soften my tone to something more human. “You will never want for anything. So, if you want to teach, you are welcome to pursue that career.”
Once we were in Naples, she could go to work as a teacher, as long as she shared my bed every night; as long as she understood that her home was with me.
She huffed an exasperated sigh. “I don’t particularly care about teaching. It just paid the bills. But you can’t order me around like this. I can support myself.”
I caught on the small admission. If she didn’t want to work, why would she? “And what would you rather do with your time?”
All she had to do was name it, and I would make it happen.
“I studied Photography, but that’s just a hobby,” she replied. “I’m not really qualified to do anything other than teach. It’s not like I could ever make a living off my art.”
Something about the way she said the words sounded rote, like she was repeating a truth she’d heard often.
Suspicion stirred, and I didn’t think I’d like her answer. I asked anyway. “And who told you that?”
She shrugged and dropped her gaze, hiding from me again. “It’s just a fact. Art degrees don’t pay.”
“Who told you that you’re not good enough?” I compelled her to reply, leaving no room for evasion or defiance.
Her cheeks flushed. “My parents,” she mumbled. “George. But they were right. It’s just a silly hobby. I’m not a real artist.”
I gnashed my teeth and tasted copper on my tongue. I resolved to gift her with a camera at the first opportunity. Then I would see her talent for myself.
“You studied Photography at university?” I prompted. “You got a degree for it?”
She shook her head even as she answered, “Yes. But I—”
“Then you’re an artist.” It didn’t surprise me. Evelyn was observant and a bit reserved at times, quietly assessing the world around her. I remembered how she’d studied the wares when I’d stalked her through the market, as though she saw the beauty in every item. She’d snapped a photo of some flowers with her phone, and that motherfucker, Crawford, had said something to make her frown. She’d quickly hidden it, replacing the sad expression with a sunny smile. But he’d upset her.
My fingers itched with the need to wrap around his throat and squeeze the life out of him.
I was distracted from my mounting fury when the main course was served. She took the first bite and released a low hum.
Fuck, I needed to take her somewhere private so that I could give her a full orgasm while she was enjoying eating from my hand.
I leaned close so that I could murmur in her ear. “Finish your meal, farfallina. We’re having our dessert delivered to the suite.”
She blinked at me. “Why? I don’t mind getting out of here, but the food is so good.”
“You’ll like it better when we’re alone together. Or would you prefer for me to hold you in my lap and make you come all over my hand while I feed you? I wouldn’t mind every person here seeing how I make you come undone for me.” I nipped at the shell of her ear, and her cheeks turned pink.
“Massimo!” she hissed, squirming in her seat.
I hummed against her neck. “Are you intrigued by the idea, dolcezza? Do you want to make every man here jealous of what’s mine?”
“We can’t,” she whispered. “Please…”
I nuzzled her hair, breathing her in. “You’ll be begging a lot more once I get you alone. We’ll save public play for another time.”
“What?” she asked on a little puff of air, her face slack with shock.
I chuckled and brushed a quick kiss over her heated cheek. “Be a good girl and finish your meal. I’ll make you come soon enough.”
She shuddered, her entire body reacting to my promise with visceral desire even as embarrassment flooded her. It seemed my sweet little butterfly got off on a hint of shame. She’d come so hard when she’d rubbed herself against me in the elevator last night, watching her wanton actions in the mirror.
I studied her as we finished the main course. I barely tasted my own food; I was too enamored with her. She savored each bite, even as she shot me heated glances. My promise aroused her, and she was clearly torn between enjoying the sumptuous meal and her eagerness to be alone with me.
When dessert was served, she looked longingly at the chocolate mousse.
Unable to resist a moment longer, I grasped her hips and lifted her from her chair. She gasped and wriggled, but I easily maneuvered her so that she was sitting on my lap.