Page 4 of Thorns of Death
Leisurely, I let my gaze travel down his tall, strong frame. I couldn’t find a single flaw. His navy suit made him look severe. When my eyes wandered back up to his face, he cocked his head to the side, as if waiting for me to render my judgment.
I remained silent. Because really, what could I say? The man looked like a Roman god.
I averted my gaze to his hand, checking for a wedding band. At the confirmation of his bare fingers, silent relief washed over me. I’d never get involved with a married man, no matter how strongly our attraction brewed. That was a hard pass for me.
“Did I pass the test?” he mused, his accent sending tremors through me. I was a sad case if the sexy Italian accent alone was turning me on.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I quipped, lying through my teeth.
He jerked his arm, allowing the sleeve of his blazer to slide up as he glanced at his vintage Rolex. Growing up around wealth and living in Paris for the past several years, I was no stranger to opulence and spotted quality over gaudy easily. This man, he came from old money. He didn’t need to flash it to emphasize his power. Maybe it was exactly that which attracted me.
“Better hurry up, little one,” he mused, confident that he could make any woman’s dreams come true. He probably could. “The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll both get to feel pleasure.”
Oh. My. Freaking. God.
The way he was all businesslike talking about pleasure? That was an Italian man for you, it would seem. God, I needed to get laid. My first boyfriend was a disaster. I swore he almost shoved his penis in the wrong hole and scarred me for life. Obviously since then, I hadn’t ventured to second, let alone third base with a boy. I’d been busy with shit and trying not to make the same mistakes again.
Either way, I’d bet my violin—my most precious possession—that this man knew exactly how to give and take pleasure.
My eyes darted around him to where the blonde bombshell stood. “Aren’t you on a date?” I asked him, narrowing my eyes. “The last thing I need is a scene with a scorned woman screaming at me. God forbid it be in Italian. I wouldn’t even know how to respond.”
He offered me his hand. His poise unnerved yet fascinated me at the same time. “She didn’t come with me, and she won’t be leaving with me,” he responded.
Fuck it. I wasn’t usually the impulsive type, but tonight the stars were aligning. This was meant to be, I was certain of it.
So I slid my hand into his, his warmth instantly seeping into me and spreading all the way down to my toes. He leaned toward me, entering my personal space, and brushed his thumb along the column of my throat. A simple touch, but it sent my body into overdrive. Shudders rolled through me, and my entire body broke out in goose bumps.
His smile was predatory, and in response, my insides clenched, my panties dampening between my thighs. He leaned forward, his lips close to my ear, and whispered, “I’ll make it good for you.”
Without a single doubt in my mind, I knew he would.
Ten minutes later, we entered a fancy home. No, not a home. A mansion in the middle of Paris. Knowing what I knew about real estate in this city, I couldn’t believe anyone aside from the French prime minister could afford something like this in the heart of Paris.
“What do you do, exactly?” I asked as my heels clicked against the marble. The whole house was dimly lit and soft Italian music drifted through the air. As if he’d always planned to bring someone home. Irrational jealousy slithered through me, but I smothered it down and focused on this incredibly gorgeous man, letting his presence bolster my spontaneous decision rather than make me second-guess it.
The moon glimmered in the sky, probably looking down and witnessing many one-night stands, laughing at all the ridiculous people looking for pleasure. Well, let the moon laugh. I’d be the one laughing when the sun rose as the most sated woman on this planet.
We climbed the stairs silently while my heart screamed, nearly bursting from my chest. My phone buzzed, or maybe it was his, but neither one of us paid it any mind. My knees trembled under the flirty yellow dress that Reina had designed for me.
Last night she handed it to me with the words, “I think it’ll bring you good luck.”
She was so fucking right.
Oh my gosh, I was doing this. I was really having a one-night stand. There was nothing unusual about a twenty-three-year-old having a one-night stand at least once in her lifetime. It was on everyone’s bucket list, surely.
We entered the large dimly lit bedroom with accents of black and white everywhere. The door glided shut with a soft click, and before my next breath, he stalked toward me, his eyes cool and detached.
He cornered me against the wall, every step more eager than the last. My back pressed against the wall when a thought pushed through my desire.
“Hold on,” I breathed nervously. He instantly stilled, which worked to reassure me, if only slightly. I could sense he wouldn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want. My pulse wrestled inside my throat while he watched me with that dark gaze that made me feel like I was drowning in deep waters. “I—I don’t even know your name,” I murmured.
He considered me with those eyes. “Enrico.”
Was he—
No, he couldn’t be. Enrico was a very common Italian name… right?
“Any other questions before we get started?” he asked in that deep accented voice.
