Page 47 of Wicked Sinner
When I’ve polished off the food and a bottle of water, I go to wash my hands and come back to investigate the shopping bags. What I find is a startling array of, well… everything I could possibly need for a luxurious night out, exactly as Caesar said.
There’s a smaller bag inside one of the large ones, which I find has a variety of makeup items in it—foundation, concealer, eyeshadow, mascara and liner, lipstick. I find it hard to believe Caesar picked any of this out himself—he probably just showed a photo of me to a sales associate and asked for whatever she thought would look good on me. But whoeverdidpick it out did a good job. I don’t usually wear makeup, but what’s in the bag is close to what I’ve picked out the few times I have: neutral tones and matte finishes.
I reach into the second, larger bag, and pull the tissue paper away to feel silk slither through my fingers. My jaw almost drops when I pull out the dress.
It’s gorgeous—a delicate cream silk with a flower motif in a watercolor style that looks as if they’ve been painted on. The straps are thin and fragile, the neckline draped, and there’s a slit up one side that I have a feeling will likely goveryhigh. I stareat it for a long moment, hating how much I love it. I’ve never owned anything so beautiful in my life. It’s a work of art on fabric, and I’m almost afraid to put it on.
Draping the dress over the bed, I move on to the next bag. I find shoes—Dior—in a box, a pair of nude flats with pale pink pearls on the toes in a delicate floral pattern. I hold the shoes for a moment, trying not to feel appreciation for the fact that Caesar didn’t expect me to wear heels. That he has, at the very least, paid enough attention to me to figure out that I wouldn’t know how to walk in heels to save my life.
I gingerly set the shoes down, finishing my excavation of the bags. I find a pair of earrings, blue enamel violets with a pearl center and gold edging, and a matching cocktail ring. It’s all beautiful, all items that I’ve never imagined myself wearing but want to put on despite myself, and I set the jewelry down, hating the thrill of excitement that runs down my spine at the thought of putting this on.
I’m not a girly-girl. I’ve lived my life in jean shorts and mechanic’s coveralls… but looking at the gorgeous clothing and shoes and jewelry spread across my bed, I can’t help but wonder what I’ll look like in all of this.
I also can’t begin to imagine how much all of this costs. To me, it’s probably a fortune, but to Caesar, it was probably pocket change. The gulf between us seems more vast than ever as I run my fingers over the silk dress again.
I don’t care about any of this,I tell myself, but I can't deny that part of me is curious. I've never owned anything this beautiful, never worn clothes that weren't bought on sale or from a thrift store. What would it feel like to put on something that costs more than most people's rent?
I find out soon enough. At six-thirty, I get in the shower, then blow-dry my hair and spend an inordinate amount of time figuring out my makeup, putting it on with a light hand until Ifeel like I’ve gotten it right. I find a nude thong in the underwear that Caesar bought for me not long after I got here—I still feel uncomfortable, knowing he did that—and go without a bra, since there’s no way I could wear one under the silk dress.
When I slide the dress over my head, it flows over me like water, clinging to me perfectly. It fits me like it was made for me, and as I look at my reflection in the mirror, I can’t believe the girl looking back at meisme.
It’s been years since I’ve even worn a dress. I’ve never worn anything like this. I look beautiful, I think, staring at my reflection. I look… expensive. Polished. Sophisticated.
I look like I belong here, and the thought sends a shudder down my spine.
The shoes are surprisingly comfortable. I slip them on, put on the jewelry, and check my hair once more just before I hear the lock turn.
"You look beautiful," Caesar says from the doorway, and something in his voice makes me turn around.
He's staring at me like he's never seen me before, his blue eyes heated in a way that makes my pulse quicken despite everything. He's changed into a different suit—charcoal gray this time, perfectly tailored and hinting at the muscles beneath the fitted cloth. “I knew that dress would suit you.”
“It fits well,” I say carefully, swallowing hard. I don’t want him to see the way that look in his eyes affects me, the way it makes me feel like heat is licking through my blood. The way it reminds me of being on my knees on cold concrete, of running my tongue over him, of all the ways he made me feel things I never knew I could before that night.
"It's perfect," he says, moving closer. "You look stunning,bellissima.”
I manage a smile, feeling shaky.Because I might find a way to get away from him tonight,I tell myself firmly. Not becauseof the way he’s looking at me, or the way his cologne washes over me as I step closer to him, a faint scent of orange in it that reminds me of sunny Florida afternoons. Not because of anything other than anticipation at finally getting free.
He leads me downstairs, and I get another look at the penthouse. The last time I was so frantic and angry that I barely looked at anything, but this time, I glance around as I follow Caesar to the front door. It’s huge, all open-concept with leather and gleaming brass fixtures and polished dark wood floors, an iron staircase leading down to the main floor. It looks like a professional decorated it, without personal touches. Everything looks perfect—too perfect, like a catalog.
“Did you buy this recently?” I ask, curious despite myself. “Or did you inherit this?”
“I bought it just before I came back. Picked up the keys just before I bought the Ferrari.” Caesar glances at me, and heat snakes down my spine at the knowing look in his eyes. A look that reminds me of whatwewere doing, not too long after that.
I hope against hope that he’s going to take a different car, have a driver, call an Uber. But whether he’s particularly attached to it or just wants to torture me, he leads me to the Ferrari, and I force memories of myself spread out over the hood out of my head. The way his mouth felt on me, the way his cock?—
Caesar opens my door just as I nearly trip, and he gives me another of those knowing looks as my cheeks flush. “I’m very attached to this car,” he says, a smirk on his lips, and I resist the urge to slap it off of his face.
“You shouldn’t be,” I say flatly, sliding into the passenger side. “It’s clearly defective.”
He grins as he leans down to close my door. “Just looking at it reminds me how good you felt around me,bellissima. And every time I go for a drive, I’m so turned on I can’t think straight.”
Caesar steps back, closing the door, and a ripple of unwanted heat runs down my spine. Since the night he kidnapped me, he’s seemed almost like a different man than the one who seduced me the first night—colder, more focused, an arrogant, single-minded criminal that fits my image of a man in the mafia. But for a second there, as he shut my door, I got a glimpse of that man from the first night again—the cocky, sexy, smirking man who talked me down onto my knees faster than anyone else ever has.
And that got me here,I remind myself grimly, trying to banish the tingling heat that runs over my skin as Caesar slides into the driver’s seat. The Ferrari smells of warm leather and his citrus cologne, and my stomach flips at how close he is to me in the small space of the sports car’s interior.
It shouldn’t be so hard to remember that I’m here against my will right now. But somehow, having him so close, with the reminders of what we did all around me and the scent of him in my nose, I feel an inexplicable pull to lean closer to him, to breathe him in, to touch him.
I stiffen in my seat, twisting my fingers together in my lap, and do my best not to look at him.
