Page 32 of Brutal Union
"I'm going home," she tells the grave. "To him. And I think… I think I want to."
The doorman at my building, George, who's been here since before I bought the penthouse, doesn't hide his surprise when Valentina walks through the lobby alone.
"Mrs.Rosetti," he greets carefully. "Should I call up?"
"No need. I'm home." The word falls from her lips naturally, and I watch her freeze as she hears what she's said. "I mean, I'm going up."
"Of course, Mrs.Rosetti. Welcome home."
She flushes but doesn't correct him again. The elevator rises, and I close the security feeds, moving from my office to the living room.
The elevator chimes. She enters with her keys, the ones I left beside the money. Another test passed.
She sees me immediately. Her chin lifts in that defiant way that makes me want to pin her against the nearest wall and fuck that defiance right out of her.
"I bought something for you," she tells me, reaching into her bag and pulling out the book she bought.
She presses it to my chest, holding it there, lingering, daring me to accept it. When I finally do, she pulls her hands away like I'm made of fire.
I immediately open to the title page and read the inscription she wrote: "Know your enemy, but what happens when your enemy knows you back?"
"That old place on Michigan Ave never has first editions," I say lazily, tensing for her reaction.
She moves closer, each step deliberate. "You watched me today."
It's a statement, not a question.
"Every second."
"That's sick."
"That's protection." I stand, and she takes an instinctive step back. Good. She should remember what I am. "You think I'd let you wander my city without knowing exactly where you are? Who's near you? Which motherfucker is looking at you too long?"
"I wasn't going to run."
"No?" I move closer, backing her against the bookshelf. "The FBI was right there, principessa. Freedom on a silver platter."
"I came back."
"You came home." I cage her with my arms, not quite touching but close enough that she feels my heat. "Say it right."
Her breath catches. "I came back to the penthouse."
"Try again." My hand moves to her throat, thumb pressing against the spot she's been touching all day. Her pulse hammers beneath my touch. "Where did you come?"
"Home," she whispers, and the word destroys me. "I came home."
"Why?"
"Ask me again when I figure out the answer."
"You already know." I lean closer, my mouth near her ear. "You came home because your body knows who it belongs to. Because you've been wet all day thinking about this morning. Because you touch yourself at night wishing it was my hands, my mouth, my cock."
She shudders, and I feel her nipples harden through the silk of her dress.
"You didn't run," I continue, "because you're starting to crave this. The way I look at you. The way I make you feel. The way your pussy clenches when I get close."
"You're delusional."
