Page 72 of Take Me Under

“For her… enthusiasm. It really is late. I can’t imagine seeing my workshop was high on your priority list.”

I chuckled. “I thought your mother was charming. As for my priorities, I won’t deny that I had other ideas for you tonight.”

Serena glanced at me, her expression unreadable. “I haven’t been to the workshop in months. Dust will have settled. You aren’t really dressed for this.”

“It’s of no concern. Clothes can be washed and replaced.”

She didn’t respond but slowed her pace as we reached the workshop. The building was small, a mix of wood and aged brick walls that bore the marks of decades of use. Serena unlocked the door and stepped inside, flicking on a light that illuminated the space with a warm, golden glow.

The workshop was simple. Wooden benches lined the walls, each one cluttered with tools, shards of glass, and half-finished projects. Shelves were filled with jars of colored glass fragments, their hues catching the light like jewels.

“It’s nothing fancy but it works,” Serena said, walking ahead of me. She moved to one of the workbenches, her fingers trailing over the tools with a kind of reverence.

My eyes landed on a finished piece resting on a shelf—a glass sculpture of a bird in flight, the wings delicate and translucent. The attention to detail was exquisite.

“Did you make that?” I asked, nodding toward it.

She looked over and nodded. “That was one of my first solo pieces. I was just a teenager when I made it.”

“It’s stunning,” I said, meaning it.

A faint blush crept up her cheeks, and she busied herself with straightening tools on the workbench. “Glass is…unpredictable. It can shatter if you’re not careful, but if you handle it right, it transforms into something beautiful. I like that about it.”

I mulled over her words for a moment and found myself watching her more closely. There was something about the way she moved in this space—comfortable, confident, and completely in her element.

“Show me how you do it.”

“Blow glass?”

“Yes.”

She laughed. “It takes hours for the furnace to reach temp. Another day, maybe.”

I stepped toward her. “Tomorrow then.”

“I suppose that could work. I have a commission I need to start on, and tomorrow is as good of a time as any.”

She paused, and her brow furrowed. Her lips pursed contemplatively, seemingly lost in thought as she looked around the workspace. Just the idea of seeing her work—seeing her create something as sensual as the flames on display in front of my club—was enough to make me want to take her right here and now. Knowing she was the creator of such a provocative work of art reminded me that she was the only one who had ever triggered such deep, carnal desires in me.

I thought about when I’d first seen the glass flames at a silent auction in New York. They had been the talk of the event, stunning in their beauty and mystery. The auctioneer had mentioned that they’d been recently acquired from a gallery in Florence. The moment I saw them, I knew I had to have them. Now knowing that Serena had created them felt like too much of a coincidence. I didn’t believe in one almighty God or any of the Catholic teachings Serena had mentioned. But I did believe in fate.

“It will be an early morning,” she continued. “I’ll have to get up before six to light the furnace and?—”

I silenced her words by roughly pulling her to me. I’d been patient enough all through dinner. I needed to taste her—to feel her.

“Come back to my hotel, princess. Spend the night with me,” I murmured, my voice low and coaxing. I caught the soft scent of her perfume, a stark contrast to the fire in her gaze.

Serena tensed and let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head as she glanced away. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” I reached for her hand, placing it between usand running my thumb over her knuckles. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t relax either.

“Not tonight. It would be too…obvious. It’s my mother,” she said finally, her voice tinged with something between exasperation and amusement. But I also detected a hint of longing.

I arched a brow. “Need I remind you again? You’re a grown woman, Serena. You don’t need your mother’s permission.”

She sighed, biting her lip, that internal battle playing out across her face.

“You don’t understand. I’m happy you’re here, and I want to be with you again—more than you know. This isn’t about permission,” she said, and paused to let out a sardonic laugh. Then she exhaled slowly, meeting my gaze. “If it were about getting permission, I’d still be a virgin. My mother just has this way of seeing things. She’s spent her whole life in the church—praying, confessing, believing every word of it. She takes her faith very seriously.”

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