Page 50 of The Red Queen

Her pussy tightened around him until he had no choice but to follow her, shouting his own pleasure into her breast and releasing his seed deep inside her. The pleasure of conquest slammed into the physical pleasure of fucking a woman unparalleled. Desi belonged to him, and he would never allow her to leave.

When he first accepted Desi as his captive, he’d had one intent; impregnant a woman who could raise a child as fierce as its mother and as loyal as its father. Now… now, he just wanted Desi.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Desi stared into the mirror over her vanity, reaching up to touch her face. Did it look different? She thought maybe it did. Her cheeks were flushed a dusky red against her tan skin, giving her the glow she’d lost in the past several months. She felt… exhilarated.

Yet, she also felt off balance and confused.

She hadn’t expected the passion, the feelings Giovanni had ignited in her the night before. He’d taken things to an entirely different level than anything she’d ever experienced before. It was so strange coming from a man like him, a man who dressed like a fancy gentleman and had impeccable manners. She’d expected sex with him to be pleasant, but not the bomb that had gone off in her bed the night before. She’d been helpless under the onslaught.

He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, lulling his victims with his gentlemanly appearance before unleashing the Italian fire that simmered within.

She gave herself a half-smile in the mirror at her own musings. She’d never been so fanciful before, never had time for it. She’d been forced into the attitude of a grim realist by her life’s circumstances. Perhaps it was the vineyard, or maybe Venice, possibly Giovanni himself, but the romance was getting to her.

“Buongiorno.”

Desi looked over her shoulder as Giovanni sat on the edge of her bed and reached for his trousers, dragging them up his legs before tucking his cock inside and buckling the belt. She felt a stab of disappointment that she hadn’t gotten a better look at it.

“Good morning,” she said, watching intently as he approached and leaned down.

She thought he was going to kiss her head or her cheek, but he reached past her and picked up her hairbrush. She held in a wince as he held it up to the tangled mess of her hair, then relaxed when he gently ran the bristles through the strands, holding his hand against her head to lessen the sting when the brush caught on a tangle. He knew what he was doing, how to brush a woman’s hair. A jolt of jealousy hit her when she realized he’d done this before.

“I have two younger sisters,” he answered her unspoken question. “My mother would get me to brush their hair when she was too busy.”

It was such an oddly domestic chore; she couldn’t picture the young Giovanni helping his sisters put their hair in order.

“Where are your sisters now?” she asked, watching him in the mirror.

“One is married to a rival in Genoa. I see her occasionally on holidays. The other married a Brazilian and emigrated to his home country.”

“Is he associated with the mob?” she murmured.

“I hope not. He’s a dentist.”

“Sounds like a man who enjoys torturing his victims.”

He chuckled and they fell silent as he worked the brush through her tresses. She sighed at the pleasant sensation and closed her eyes, enjoying the rhythmic strokes. It was almost like he was gently making love to her, raising some of the same feelings. An ache started in her chest.

Finally, after what felt like a long time yet wasn’t long enough, he bent over to replace the brush on her vanity table. She opened her eyes and met his gaze in the mirror. Hers was dreamy, his was smouldering.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” he murmured in her ear. “I’m starving.”

Somehow, he made the word ‘starving’ sound sexual, and she blushed in response. He dropped a kiss on her shoulder and took her arm, lifting her from the chair.

“I need to change,” she whispered, mesmerized by him.

“I like you as you are.” He pushed the fall of her hair over her shoulder, exposing the deep vee of her nightie which showed through the silk robe she was wearing.

“But the guards and Mrs. Capelli will see me.”

He shook his head. “They will not see if I don’t want them to. This is your home now, Desi. I want you to be comfortable.”

She looked away so he wouldn’t see the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes. She’d never felt at home, not since she was too young to remember. Her life had been one of excess, yes, but also of discomfort. She hadn’t been allowed to enjoy pleasure without a whole lot of pain, too.

But this, here with Giovanni, was different.

“Okay,” she said, lifting now dry eyes to meet his. “Let’s get breakfast.”

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