Page 8 of Shattered Engagement

“Are you?” she counters, chin lifting in defiance.

I smile, appreciating her spirit. “Not a single one.” I move toward her, watching as she backs up until she hits the wall. I place my arm above her head, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body without actually touching her. “Last chance to walk away, Chiara. Once I start, I won’t stop until you’re screaming my name.”

A flush spreads across her cheeks, down her neck, disappearing beneath the neckline of her dress. I want to follow it with my tongue.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispers, and something ignites inside me—a hunger that has nothing to do with my mission or my past.

For a moment, I just look at her, committing every detail to memory. Then I claim her mouth, abandoning the restraint I showed on the dance floor. Her lips part immediately, a small sound of surrender vibrating against my tongue as I deepen the kiss.

I tangle my fingers in her hair, releasing it from its careful style. Dark waves cascade around her shoulders, and I fist the silky strands, tilting her head back to expose the elegant column of her throat.

“So beautiful,” I murmur against her skin, grazing my teeth over the point where her neck meets her shoulder. Her pulse races beneath my lips. “I’ve been wanting to taste you since you walked into the club.”

“You saw me arrive?” she gasps as I trace the curve of her breast through her dress.

“I see everything, Chiara,” I tell her, brushing my thumb over her nipple, feeling it harden beneath the fabric. Her back arches, pressing her body closer to mine. “Especially women who are trying to disappear.”

I watched her enter alone, noted how she positioned herself at the bar with clear sightlines to all entrances and exits. Professional habit, assessing potential threats. But something about her vulnerability called to me, breaking through the walls I’ve carefully maintained for years.

“I’m not—ah!—disappearing,” she manages as I nip at her earlobe. “Just hiding. For tonight.”

I pull back to look into her eyes. “Then let’s make tonight memorable, shall we?”

She nods, her lips parted, eyes dilated with desire. I slide my hand up her thigh, slowly raising the hem of her dress, feeling her tremble under my touch.

“Tell me what you want,” I command. In my world, I’ve learned to read people’s micro expressions, to anticipate their needs and fears. But with her, I want clarity. Consent. A choice freely given, when so much of my life has been about deception.

Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, then a flash of deeper emotion. “I want you,” she whispers. Then, stronger: “I want you to make me forget everything but this moment.”

“As you wish,principessa,” I murmur, claiming her mouth again as I reach for the zipper of her dress.

I drag it down slowly, savoring each inch of skin revealed. The black fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but matching black lace underwear and heels. I step back slightly, drinking in the sight of her.

She’s magnificent—all curves and soft skin, but with a straightened spine and lifted chin that speaks of pride, of strength. Not a delicate flower to be protected, but a woman who knows her own power.

“Perfect,” I tell her, meaning it in a way that surprises me. I’ve been with beautiful women before, but there’s something about her—a fire behind the careful facade—that calls to something primal in me.

She reaches for the buttons of my shirt, impatience in her movements. “Your turn.”

I let her undress me, watching her face as she pushes off my jacket, loosens my tie, and works down the buttons of my shirt. Her fingertips brush my chest, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

As my shirt falls open, her eyes widen slightly, focusing on the scars and tattoos that mark my body. The bullet wound near my collarbone serves as a reminder of my first year working for the Calviño family. The knife slash across my ribs was a gift from one of Bianchi’s men during a territory dispute. The puckered mark on my shoulder is the oldest scar, from the night my nanny fled with me; glass from a shattered car window embedded in my skin as bullets flew past. Some scars are covered with tattoos, but the ones that drive me on my course I have left to the naked eye.

She traces the bullet scar with gentle fingers. “Who are you, really?”

I capture her wrist, pressing a kiss to her palm. The question is dangerous—more dangerous than she knows. “Tonight, I’m just a man who wants to make you forget your name, let alone your fiancé’s.”

Her eyes flicker with questions, but then I lower my mouth to her breast, teeth grazing her nipple through delicate lace, and her head falls back with a gasp.

She grips my shoulders as I tease her through the fabric, tugging at her nipple until she’s grinding against my thigh, desperate for friction. When I finally reach around to unfasten her bra, she practically sobs with relief.

“Gorgeous,” I murmur, tracing the red lines left by the lace. “So responsive.”

I cup her other breast, pinching the peak, watching the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing grows ragged. Slowly, I trail my hand lower, tracing patterns on her stomach until it’s clenching beneath my touch. With my other hand, I dip a finger beneath the lacy edge of her panties. She arches into me, seeking more, but I pull away.

“Please,” she gasps, sounding tortured, needy.

She said she wanted to forget, and right now, that’s what I need, too.

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