Page 38 of The Bonventi Secret
"Actually, I think I’ll stay here a bit longer," I say, my voice surprisingly steady. "I’m just wrapping up a few things."
He nods slowly and then turns around. "Don’t work too late, Livia. Even brilliant minds need rest," he says without looking back.
"Of course," I say, watching him leave.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I let out a shaky breath and glance down at the diary still resting in my lap.
"Fuck, that was close," I say, taking a deep breath.
Part of me wants to keep exploring the diary, but I’m too nervous. I open the bottom drawer of my desk and shove the diary underneath a stack of papers, burying it beneath a mountain of research notes and photocopied articles. I arrange everything meticulously, trying to make it look natural, as if I haven’t just hidden a vital piece of Enzo’s family history.
I close the drawer and think, what am I doing? This isn’t me.
I don’t steal. I don’t snoop. And yet here I am, violating my own principles out of sheer what—curiosity? Standing up, I remind myself that nothing about this situation is normal, so maybe it’s okay for me to bend my own rules a bit.
As I leave the library and make my way to the suite, the hallway seems longer than usual, each step echoing in the silence.
As I ascend the stairs, a new thought enters my mind, one I hadn’t considered—I wonder if he knows about his grandfather’s diary?
It looked like it hadn’t been touched in a very long time, given the dust, but maybe he’d read it some time ago and put it back. Maybe at our dinners I can subtly find out.
As I approach the ornate double doors that lead to our suite, I pause, seeing the guards at the door. They’re serious, and I feel like their faces might as well say, 'I know what you’re hiding.'
Just like most nights, I pass them with a nod and enter.
The suite is dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a small table lamp near the bed. And there, sitting up against the pillows, is Enzo, shirtless, his hair damp from a recent shower.
As I step into the suite, Enzo stands. He’s wearing only gray sweatpants, and my eyes are immediately drawn to the outline of his bulge beneath the thin fabric. I try to look away, but my body refuses to cooperate.
My body starts to tingle as I take in the sight of him. His muscular chest, his tattoos. I feel a rush of heat spread through my body, and I suddenly feel incredibly nervous.
"There you are," he says. "I was beginning to think you might end up falling asleep at your desk."
"No, no, I…um," I stutter and look away, realizing my eyes were wandering over him too much. "I’m going to wash my face and change," I say and walk right to the bathroom and shut the door behind me.
I look in the mirror and see my cheeks flush with embarrassment at potentially being caught staring.
On top of that, his sculpted body has set my entire body on fire. I look in the mirror, my cheeks flushed, my eyes filled with a hint of lust.
I splash some cold water on my face, trying to regain control, but the throbbing between my legs only intensifies.
"Get it together, Livia," I mutter to my reflection. He’s my captor, for fuck’s sake. The man who’s forcing me to marry him.
But my body doesn’t seem to care about any of that. I can feel the wetness between my thighs, a reminder of how my body responded to the sight of him. I grip the edges of the sink, trying to steady myself.
What the hell is wrong with me? I shouldn’t be reacting this way, it’s ridiculous.
I pat my face dry with a soft towel, trying to focus on anything but the ache building inside me.
I change into my pajamas—a simple tank top and shorts. As I pull them on, I can’t help but wonder what Enzo would think if he knew how wet I am right now. The thought sends another jolt of arousal through me, and I bite my lip.
Think of something else, for the love of God.
With one last glance in the mirror, I open the bathroom door and step back into the bedroom. Enzo is still there, still shirtless.
Shit.
He’s sitting up in the bed, the covers coming up to his waist. He does a double take as I walk to the bed.
