Page 114 of Untamed

His hands move then, slow, reverent, lifting until they find the bare skin of my thighs. His palms are rough, calloused from a life I’ll probably never fully understand, but his touch is gentle. Almost...cautious.I feel his thumbs trace upward, following the curve of my thighs until the muscles beneath them tighten reflexively. My lungs stall, caught on the weight of him, but I don’t stop.

There is no part of me that want to.

And it seems, neither does he.

His large hands slide higher, just beneath the hem of my robe, where the fabric gives way to skin. My nightdress shifts with the movement, the silk cool against my back, and suddenlytoo muchbetween us.

His hands are grounding, too real and too warm, but it’s the way he looks at me next that truly undoes me.

I lean back, just enough to meet his eyes. His stare is intense, burning, almost, but not possessive. Not lustful in the way most men look. It’s something else. Like he’s asking a question without speaking. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll disappear.

I’m locked in his gaze, I couldn’t move even if I tried.

His hands stay on me, firm but unmoving. Holding me like I’m fragile and powerful all at once. Like if he touches me too hard, I’ll break, but if he lets go, he will.

My hands are still on his face, one cupping his jaw, the other smoothing back a piece of hair that’s fallen out of place. I can feel the unspoken question vibrating in the air between us. He’s still holding back. Still fighting a war I can’t see. So, I lean in again, press another kiss to the corner of his mouth. Slow, unhurried...just a brush.

And that’s when I feel it, that palpable shift.

His hands slide higher, over the back of my thighs, until the fabric of my robe parts under his touch. The satin slips, revealing a flash of bare skin and the top of my red nightdress.

Ares freezes.

His breath drags in hard and sharp, and I feel his eyes on me, finally,reallyon me.

Then he rasps, low and broken, “Christ, bambina. You had to wear fucking red.” There’s a kind of admiration in his voice. As if the colour is more than just silk. Like it’s a warning and a promise all at once. My lips part, but no words come out. Because what is theretosay.

His thumb brushes the edge of the robe at my waist, just beneath the loose knot. His voice is wrecked when he speaks again.

“I’ve been trying... trying not to look. Not to notice what you’re wearing since the moment you walked in last night.”

A shiver travels through me, from the way his voice sounds like it’s unravelling.

He keeps tracing the edge of the robe, slow and torturous. “It would be so easy,” he murmurs, eyes burning into mine, “To pull this knot loose... watch it fall off your shoulders.” His fingers twitch, and my breath stutters. “Watch the silk slide off your skin... and see what’s underneath. If it’s as exquisite as I’ve imagined.”

My entire body reacts to his words as heat blooms low in my belly, and I feel it in my throat, in the way my pulse stutters and hammers. I don’t move. Ican’t.

And I don’t stop him.

But he doesn’t move either. His hands hold steady, poised on the edge of surrender, not yet crossing the line.

He’s waiting.

Waiting for me.

His eyes lift to mine again, darker now, voice a thread of fire when he says, “Tell me to stop, Bambina...or I swear to God, I’ll lose it.”

I don’t answer.

Not with words. Not when they’d only get caught in my throat and ruin this moment. The silence, the weight, the air so thick I can barely draw a breath much less form coherent words.

Instead, I hold his gaze. He’s still watching me like he’s standing on the edge of something dangerous. Like he’s afraid I’ll pull him under, and maybe I will. But I’m not afraid. Not anymore.

So, I move.

Slowly, deliberately, my fingers reach for the knot at my waist. The satin is soft beneath my touch, the loose tie barely clinging on. With a simple flick, a gentle pull, the robe unravels like it was never meant to stay closed in the first place.

It slips from my shoulders.

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