Page 9 of Brutal Union
The room is exactly what I expected: dark wood, masculine elegance, a California king that dominates the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Chicago skyline, city lights twinkling like diamonds I'll never touch again. Everything smells like him, that bittersweet citrus cologne that makes my head swim despite my hatred.
"Let go," I say, tugging against his hold.
"No." His thumb finds my pulse point, pressing gently. "Your heart is racing."
"The only thing racing is my urge to push you out that window."
"Liar." He turns me to face him, backing me against the closed door. "I can see it in your eyes, principessa. The way your pupils dilate when I get close. The way your breath catches."
I hate that he's right. Hate the heat pooling low in my belly despite everything. This man forced me at gunpoint to marry him. The same gun that kissed my temple an hour ago. I should feel nothing but revulsion. Instead, my traitorous body responds to his proximity like a struck match. My nipples tighten against the lace of my bra, and I know he can see them through the torn fabric of the dress.
My mind screams in protest even as my body leans toward him. This is wrong. This is exactly what Mother must have felt, trapped between revulsion and attraction, slowly drowning in a world that kills women who resist.
"You're delusional," I manage, but my voice wavers.
His free hand traces the torn neckline of my dress, fingertips barely grazing skin. "Am I? Your pulse says otherwise." His thumb strokes over my racing heartbeat at my wrist. "It's jumping like a caged bird."
"That's fear."
"Fear doesn't make your nipples hard." His gaze drops to where they press against the torn lace. "Fear doesn't make you squeeze your thighs together. Fear doesn't make you wet enough that I can smell your arousal from here."
The crude observation makes me flush hot. "You're disgusting."
"I'm honest. And you're dripping for me already, aren't you?" His knee pushes between my legs, pressing against my core through the layers of fabric. The contact makes me gasp. "There it is. That little sound you make when you want something but won't admit it."
I jerk back, but there's nowhere to go. "Is this how all Rosetti men undress their wives? Or just the ones they kidnap?"
His smile is dark, predatory. "Turn around."
"Go to hell."
"Turn around, or I'll turn you myself." His voice carries that dangerous calm that makes my stomach flip. "The dress needs to come off either way."
For a moment, I consider fighting. But his eyes hold that same certainty they had when he pressed the gun to my temple. He'll get what he wants. The only question is how much I'll suffer in the process.
I slowly turn, facing the door. I feel him behind me, his presence overwhelming in the quiet room. His hands grip the torn fabric at my shoulders, and with one swift motion, he rips the ruined dress completely apart. The sound of tearing lace fills the room as what remains of grandmother's wedding dress falls away in tatters.
"Already torn beyond saving," he murmurs, his mouth suddenly at my neck. "Just like you will be."
The dress pools at my feet in a cascade of destroyed lace and broken dreams. I'm left in the white lingerie I wore for another man's wedding night, another life that died at the altar. The silk sheets of the bed behind us seem to whisper promises I don't want to hear.
"Beautiful," he says, his hands skimming down my arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Turn back around. Let me see what's mine."
I turn slowly, keeping my eyes fixed on his chest. But he tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. The hunger there makes my breath catch.
"White lace," he observes, one finger tracing the edge of my bra. "Virgin bride lingerie. How inappropriate." His finger dips lower, circling my nipple through the lace. "Tell me, principessa, how many lovers have disappointed you? How many fumbling boys who didn't know what to do with a woman like you?"
"None of your business."
"Everything about you is my business now." He pinches my nipple through the lace, making me gasp. "Every inch of skin, every sound you make, every drop of wetness between your legs."
"I'll never be yours." The words come out breathy, undermined by the way my back arches into his touch.
"Your body already is." His other hand slides down my stomach, fingers teasing the edge of my panties. "It knows who it belongs to, even if your mind resists. Should I prove it? Should I slide my fingers into your pussy right now and show you how wet you are for me?"
I whirl around, ready to slap him, but he catches my wrist again. We're close now, close enough that I can feel his erection pressing against my stomach through his pants. The size of him makes my core clench with unwanted anticipation.
"Go ahead," I challenge, my voice rough. "Force me. Prove you're exactly the monster I think you are."
