a little girl would over squares in hopscotch. She wet her aching, parched lips. “Clothes.”
“Really? Whatever happened to fig leaves?” Her lips twitched. How did he engage her sense of humor, when she wanted to murder him? “What do you sleep in?”
“What do people sleep in? But I’m no longer in my pajamas.”
“You’re not ‘people.’ And if I become the future king of Castaldini, I’ll issue a royal decree prohibiting you from wearing pajamas. A body like yours shouldn’t be encased in anything but drapes of chiffon, wraps of tulle, veils of gauze. Or just jewelry.”
“Sure. Just the things to attend Council meetings in,” she scoffed. “Fig leaves would be preferable.”
“You haven’t answered my question again, Clarissa.”
She sighed. “In the interest of preventing an inspection visit—I’m wearing another nondescript skirt suit.”
“Nothing you put on your body remains nondescript. After last night, skirt suits have entered the realm of highly erotic garments. Following the same rationalization, pajamas on you are probably the height of sexiness.” If he thought she had anything to say to that, he could think again. She was busy dealing with the impending heart attack he’d so casually caused. But he didn’t wait for her commentary. “What are you wearing beneath the jacket? Is your top buttoned, or pulled on, like the one you had on yesterday?”
“I don’t see—”
“It’s I who wants to see. In my mind’s eye. Now, do as I tell you. Take off your jacket. Slowly.”
His whispers, hypnotic, incendiary, were dragging her down into an endless well of mindlessness, incinerating rules and logic and memory. She still struggled. “Ferruccio, I don’t think—”
“Don’t think. Do it. This is where you start convincing me again. The jacket, Clarissa. Off.”
She took the phone away from her ear, stared at it, wondering if it had turned into a device that was whispering delusions. She put it back on, gritted, “It’s off.”
His whisper grew hotter, darker. “Liar.”
“How do you know if I’m lying or not?” She struggled not to pant. “Do you have my room bugged? Am I on camera now?”
“I can tell from your tone, from your breathing. From every cell in my body that’s telling me you’re still covered in layers of clothes. And you haven’t answered me. Buttons or pulled-on?”
“B-buttons…” she stammered.
“Leave the jacket on then. For now. Unbutton your blouse for me, Clarissa. Start at the top.” This time her hands trembled to obey him, as if powered by his will, his impatience. “Stop at the button just below your breasts.” She did. “Turn your phone to speaker mode. I want both your hands free.” She did that, too. “Now cross your hands inside your blouse, bellissima. Knead your breasts, then flick your nails over your nipples through your bra.” She fell back on the bed again, did as he instructed. “They’re hard now. Aching. Begging for my fingers, my lips and tongue and teeth.” And they were. How they were. “Do you remember the pressure I applied when I nipped them? Pinch them as hard.” She did, gasped, arched off the bed. “Again.” And again she did it, and every time he prodded her.
Fire raged through her. Her brain was sizzling, her chest, her eyes steaming, the heat in her gut converging to pour between her thighs, the pounding there beating to the frantic rhythm of her heart. She felt as if he’d taken over her body, was using her own hands as extensions of his lust, as if he was the one doing these things to her again. As he was. Whoever said the mind was the most powerful sex organ had been right. And he’d taken over hers.
“Pull your skirt up, touch your buttocks as I did, squeeze them.” She obeyed, unable to suppress her whimpers anymore. “It’s me doing it, pulling you against my erection, grinding into you. Spread your legs, Clarissa, let me have better access, open yourself and take more of me.”
She opened herself, could swear she felt him bearing down on her, the throbbing where he said he was, but wasn’t, becoming erratic with her heart’s short-circuiting rhythm.
“Now, do what you wanted me to do—what I would have done if you didn’t stop me. Cup yourself, Clarissa, tight. You’re burning now.” She was. And she couldn’t bear it. “Slip your hand inside your panties, spread your lips open. Now slide your fingers through your flowing nectar.” She did, keened, trembling on the edge now. His voice thickened, became harsh as gravel. “You’re melting, empty, losing your mind, unable to breathe with the hunger. I can see you, Clarissa, quaking on the edge of release. I can scent your need. I can feel your heart stampeding, your body tautening, your core demanding me.”
He stopped, drew in a shuddering breath.
Her lips trembled on a smile. He was as affected as she was, as distressed. His breath, when it rushed out, felt as if it filled her, the stimulus that almost tipped her over. She waited, needing it to be his words that did.
“But this stops here, mia magnifica. Anything more, you’ll have to come get it.”
Everything stilled, froze. The world. Her body. Her heart.
“I’m flying back to Castaldini as we speak.” His voice was crisp and distant all of a sudden, all intensity and intimacy evaporated. “I had to tend to some business, but I’ll be back in my mansion within the hour. You’ve gone a long way toward convincing me. I expect you to continue your…persuasion, then.”
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