Page 25 of Ruthless Silence
"Make me forget to hate you."
Pain flickers across his features, gone so fast I might have imagined it. "Maybe that's the point."
"You had a real voice once."
"They took it."
"Who?" Though I know the answer. My family's men. Their revenge.
He doesn't answer. Instead: "The music you hate is the only way I can speak certain truths. And you call it beautiful when you think I can't hear."
"I never…"
"Last night. You whispered 'beautiful' during the third movement."
Caught. Exposed. I shove his chest hard with both hands. He doesn't budge, but he catches my wrists, firm but not painful. Now we're connected, his hands wrapped around mine, and the contact sends electricity shooting up my arms straight to my pussy.
"Let go!" The words burst out in English, broken with emotion.
His grip tightens slightly, his jaw clenching with the effort of control. "You pushed. I pushed back. Don't like the game?"
I try to bring my knee up, but he blocks with his thigh, stepping between my legs. The position presses us together, full body contact, and we both freeze. I can feel his chest against mine, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. And lower,Madonna mia, I can feel him hard against my stomach through his expensive suit.
My body is a traitor, growing wet where his thigh presses between mine. This is wrong. He killed Papa. Killed my uncle. Stole everything that ever mattered. But my pussy doesn't care about revenge, only about the heat of him, the size of him, the way he makes me feel small and protected and furious all at once.
"Dante," I whisper, his name slipping out before I can stop it. The first time I've said it aloud.
His hands tighten on my wrists, almost painful, and I see his control cracking at the edges. His eyes drop to my mouth, and heat floods through me that has nothing to do with anger. His hands shake slightly where they hold mine.
We stand frozen like that. My back against the desk, his body pressed against mine, both breathing too hard for this to be about fighting anymore. I can feel his heart beating against mychest, fast and wild, nothing like the controlled man he pretends to be. The rhythm matches mine, two hearts pounding out the same desperate tune. His cock throbs against my stomach, and wetness floods my panties.
My exhausted brain can't process whether this is desire or just another form of warfare.
Then suddenly he releases my wrists and steps back, putting space between us that feels wrong after that contact. My skin still burns where he touched me, phantom pressure that makes me want to reach for him. No.That's not what I want. It can't be.
He pulls the ring from his pocket, sets it on the desk beside me with deliberate care. The metal makes a soft click against the wood.
"Put it back on," he signs, and there's something different in his movements now. Less controlled. More desperate.
"Why should I?"
His answer surprises me: "I play piano at night so I don't do this."
"Do what?"
"Touch you without permission."
The admission hangs between us, raw and honest. He's been fighting this too. Whatever this dangerous thing between us is, he's been using music to keep it at bay. All those midnight symphonies weren't just expression. They were restraint.
He moves toward the door, then turns back. His hands shake slightly as he signs: "You want me to be cruel? This is my cruelty. Wanting you and keeping myself from taking. Playing music instead of playing with the way your body responds to mine."
My breath catches. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He knows how wet I am, how my nipples peaked for him, how my body betrayed every promise I made to Papa's memory.
"I didn't give you permission to want me," I sign desperately.
That almost-smile appears, sad this time. "No.You didn't."
He leaves me there, shaking against his desk, the ring beside me catching the afternoon light. The door doesn't close. He never shuts me out completely, but his footsteps fade down the hall.
