Page 12 of Dominance

GLORIA

To say that I’ve walked right off the deep end would be a cliché, in every sense of the phrase.

And in every sense of my entire life, it’s absolutely a fact.

In. Over. My. Head.

My head, which until a few weeks ago was firmly attached to my body instead drifting off in a haze of sensual-soaked euphoria. Stupid whiskey, stupid wine.

Stupid, foolish girl.

Adriano’s scent still lingers around me, although I ditched his pants in a bin along the hallway as I made my exit.

He’s more intoxicating than the liquor by far.

Not to mention disarming, quick, and terrifyingly dangerous.

Everything that sets me spinning and longing for one more word, quip, and now one more touch of his hands. Don’t even get me started on his…

Shaking my head I rush to the car, slipping in and ordering my driver home.

It barely occurs to me that Dad is going to flip, the two of us disappearing from the party and then straight up leaving. But I had to get out.

Any longer and I would have let Adriano take me right there, bent over the dryer…

Heat flushes my cheeks and I nearly slap myself to clear my head.

At the same time, a voice, sultry and feigning innocence argues with honeyed words that he is my fiancé, he is my future husband. Why shouldn’t I enjoy him?

Why shouldn’t we give in to a little fun?

And sweet heaven I could have fun with him.

But I hardly know him and certainly cannot trust him yet. If ever.

He’s my father’s pawn, and likely in his pocket. It’s too risky to get too close.

The drive home is blaringly quiet, as is my room in my father’s compound estate. And hot. So fucking hot.

Or maybe it’s just the fact that I can’t get the thought of Adriano out of my head. Those eyes, dark and storming, those lips, always on the verge of a secret smile, those shoulders and that chest.

And his hands, broad and strong, grabbing me places that make my legs squirm under the sheets, clenching my thighs together to alleviate the ache in my center.

I’d love to say that sleep offers relief, but my dreams are just as lurid.

Almost like stepping into this world of crime and danger awakened something in my psyche that was dormant. Longing for the risks and thrills that my life lacked before.

I shouldn’t want any of it.

Most of the time I regret responding to my father’s letter.

Not that I had much of a choice at the time. When I awoke the next day, I decided to call him, the number on his card tucked into the envelope.

Only to find that he was in Paris, waiting for my response. We had breakfast that day.

The next, he saw to my debts, buying me out of Claude’s credit nightmare without my knowledge, and dropping the bomb on me at dinner that he took care of my things, had them packed, ready to ship.

I should have protested more.

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