Page 6 of I Would Die For You

“Stefano,” she says, her voice a soft lilt discrepant with her aloof demeanor.

I like the sound of my name on her lips. Just that one word is making my jeans tight.

Then she nods softly. “Come with me.”

Chapter 3 Kaya

It’salmostlikeleadinga lamb to the slaughter, the way most men just turn into putty when a woman beckons them to follow her to a lair of pleasure. Many a time, I’ve wondered how difficult it would be to off a man when he’s in the throes of lust and passion. Break his too-hard dick with a snap, incapacitate him, then slam a hand onto his throat to choke him with his own Adam’s apple.

Sometimes, that might work. Other times, the man in question will give the appearance he’s complying, the beast in him just lurking under the surface. One wrong move, and he’ll come to the fore, his hand on the woman’s throat to choke the very life out of her.

A man like Stefano Beccario brings such an image to mind. Not only is he tall and big, his muscles rippling, his vitality at its peak because he’s young and very far from middle age, but there’s an unmistakable edge to him, a pulsing of power thrumming just beneath his golden olive skin.

As such, it’s not a lamb I’m leading to slaughter as I make my way to the smallest private room along the back corridor. I’m walking myself to the altar, the sacrificial virgin in this scenario. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give for my freedom, meaning there’s nothing I wouldn’t surrender to Stefano Beccario because he’s my ticket out of Torino and this life I’ve been thrust into.

His energy pulsates behind me as he follows. The warmth from his broad frame is radiating out to me, and I can’t get the image of his big hands out of my mind. Will they be as hot as I’m imagining he is? Does passion remain bridled inside him, or does he unleash when he’s with a lover?

Heat suffuses my entire being, burning my cheeks when I push the door open and welcome him into the private room I decked out before going to find him in the booth. The lights are low with a soft focus, the cushions on the banquette plumped up, a bottle of Piper Heidsieck Brut champagne propped in a bucket full of ice.

“Sit,” I say quietly.

I don’t look to see how he lowers himself to the seat, whether he stays rigid or he sprawls out. I’m not here for an experience; I’m here for a job. The sooner I get it over with, the better, but I can’t seem too expedient. My future rests in Stefano’s hands.

“What kind of music do you like?” I ask, my hand hovering on the tablet connected to the sound system in the room.

“You choose.”

I’ve never really been one for lap dances, most of the time finding myself on my back or on my knees as a john fucks me. How would I do it, in a fantasy? I go with that flow and find the perfect track. It’s ironic that I’ve chosen The Weeknd’s “High For This” when I’m the most sober I’ve ever been in this moment. And Stefano Beccario’s body under me? I don’t want to be high for this because I want to feel every second of touching him and being with him even though this evening has been imposed on me.

The high whine of the track’s opening reverberates in the room. My hand goes to the pins holding my hair back—as a hostess, I get to keep it in an updo. The long locks flow over my shoulders and back, and I take a deep breath as the singer’s voice overlaps on the music.

Stefano isn’t slouching, nor is he sitting rigidly—just a man confident in his position, in his own skin. His deep-set eyes have narrowed on me, and I’d swear his nostrils flare as he hitches in a sharp inhale. The sound is audible when I place a hand on his knee and start running my fingers up his thigh.

Our eyes lock at some point, and a part of me frowns. It’s so intimate, giving a lap dance like this. It’s almost like he’s looking deep into me, seeing parts of me even I’m not privy to. And in his clear hazel eyes, all I can see is heat, fire, the flames of desire eating him up from the inside and on the verge of jumping over to ignite me like I’m dry tinder coming into contact with an all-consuming spark.

It's disorienting, this plunge into another, and had my knees not been straddling his legs, I would’ve tipped over. Bracing my core, I stay upright, but his hands have come up, clasping my hips in his strong grip, yet his touch is also light enough to just keep me in check.

The chorus is over by this point, the track launching into the second verse. The way Stefano is holding me, and spurred by the lyrics, I’m expecting him to lay me down as he moves along to hover over me, his groin pressed to my core. But he seems to be hesitating—I can see it in the shiftiness of his eyes, the furrowed line digging itself between his brows.

“It’s okay,” I whisper.

Sometimes, even powerful men need a little urging.

“Kaya… You want this?”

I’d never have expected a man like him to ask. He’s Mafia, a future enforcer, the godson of the Don. It warms a part of me that he’s concerned enough to ensure my consent.

“Yes,” I breathe out.

He blinks. “Are you sure?”

I don’t know what I register first. Is it the wary tone, or the way his hands have tightened on my hips, no longer the sensual touch of a lover but that of a man staying me from doing something he doesn’t want.

“I…I’m sorry,” I blurt out, pulling away from him. Stefano drops his hands as I climb down from the banquette, my head lowered. “I must have misunderstood.Scusa. Mi dispiace.”

He must figure out I’m apologizing, even though I’ve gone overboard. I was worried the cover-allscusawasn’t gonna be enough to address my blunder.

“No, Kaya. I’m sorry if I’ve given you the bad impression.”

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