Page 32 of Ruthless Silence
"Yes," I breathe, even as my body betrays me, arching toward him.
He leans closer, still not quite touching except where his hand circles my wrists. His thumb brushes over my wedding ring, the one I threw at him days ago, now back on my finger like a brand. "You're playing with fire."
"Then burn me."
I try to knee him, more from instinct than real aggression, but he blocks with his thigh, stepping between my legs to prevent another attempt. The position brings our bodies flush together, and we both freeze. I can feel every inch of him pressed against me. Solid muscle, controlled power, andMadonna mia, his arousal hard against my stomach, just like in his study but somehow more intense now.
"Still determined to test me?" he signs with his free hand, his grip on my pinned wrists tightening slightly.
The evidence of his desire makes wetness flood between my thighs. Ten days of careful distance, but his want hasn'tdiminished. If anything, it's stronger.Dio mio, I think as his body presses against mine.Sono persa.I'm lost.
We're pressed together, his body caging mine against the wall. Every breath pushes my breasts against his bare chest, my nipples so hard they ache. His cock throbs against my stomach through his sweatpants, and the knowledge that I still affect him this way, that the days apart have only intensified his need, makes my head spin. The casual display of strength, how easily he controls me, makes me wetter. In my world, helplessness means death. But with him… God help me, with him it makes me wet.
His eyes drop to my lips, hunger naked in his gaze. The air between us thickens, charged with ten days of suppressed want building on what we've already tasted. My body moves without permission, rising on tiptoes. No, what am I doing? But I can't stop, drawn by some force stronger than hatred, closing the distance between our mouths until we're sharing breath.
His hand tightens on my wrists, control fraying at the edges. I can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back, his whole body taut with restraint. We're suspended in this moment, lips almost touching, the space between us measured in heartbeats.
"Dante," I whisper against his mouth.
His whole body shudders at his name on my lips. For one perfect moment, I think he'll break, close that last inch between us. His head lowers slightly, breath ghosting across my mouth…
Then he steps back, releasing my wrists. The loss of contact makes me whimper before I can stop myself.
He backs away, putting distance between us that feels wrong after that pressed heat. His hands shake as he signs: "Not like this. Not when you're conflicted."
"Dante—"
But he's already walking away, leaving me against the wall with my pulse racing and my body aching for something Ishouldn't want. The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like finality.
My legs give out, and I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the gym floor, trembling from what almost happened. What I almost let happen. What I wanted to happen.
My wrists still burn from his grip, my stomach still feels the imprint of his arousal. Every nerve in my body screams for me to follow him, to demand he finish what we started. Instead, I sit here like a coward, trying to remember why kissing my enemy would be wrong.
Because he killed Papa, my mind supplies weakly. But my body doesn't care about revenge anymore. My body wants his hands back on me, wants to know what that almost-kiss would have become.
I force myself to stand, legs shaking like a newborn colt's. The walk back to our suite feels endless, each step reminding me of the ache between my thighs, the wetness he caused without even kissing me.
The suite is empty, his leather chair abandoned. For a moment, I wonder if he's coming back at all. Maybe I pushed too far. Maybe he'll sleep somewhere else tonight, away from my obvious wanting.
Then I hear it. Piano music, drifting up from the music room below.
But this isn't like his usual midnight compositions. This is violent, passionate, desperate. The notes crash and collide, a musical confession of frustration. He's playing out what we didn't do, transforming denial into sound.
I press against the floor, then move to the door, needing to be closer to his musical revelation. The melody builds, dark and hungry, and I recognize the emotion in it because I feel it too. Want. Raw, undeniable want that ten days of proximity has only intensified.
My hand presses against the door as if I could touch him through wood and distance. The music speaks what his signs couldn't: he wants me with the same desperation that's eating me alive. Every note confesses what that pressed moment against the wall meant. He's barely holding on to his control.
I pull back from the door, my hand moving to the knife pendant at my throat. When did touching it become comfort instead of threat?
"I'm in trouble," I sign to the empty room, the truth finally breaking free.
Because I don't want to hate him anymore. I want something else entirely. Want his hands on me without the excuse of training. Want his mouth on mine without anger as justification. Want to know what sounds he'd make if I touched his scars, if I traced the damage at his throat with my tongue.
The music below builds to a crescendo, dark and desperate, and my body responds to each note like he's touching me through sound. My hand hovers at the hem of my nightgown, trembling. I've done this before, touched myself to his music, but tonight feels different. More desperate. More necessary.
I move to the bed instead, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle any sounds as my fingers find the wetness between my thighs. The memory of his body pressed against mine drives me toward release. Not the first time I've sought this outlet, but somehow more intense after feeling him against me again. Each note of the music seems to vibrate through me, as if he's playing my body from a distance.
My other hand grips the sheets for support as I work myself faster, the music's intensity matching my own desperate need. I imagine those scarred hands replacing mine, his fingers inside me while he watches with those dark eyes that see everything. This fantasy has haunted me since that day in his study, but nowit's sharper, more real after feeling his need pressed against me moments ago.
