Page 367 of Rosetti Family New York
The fantasy makes my hips jerk up into my fist.
On the screen, she tips her head back, water streaming over her face, and starts to hum. Some melody I don't recognize, soft and haunting. The sound drifts through the speakers, and I stroke myself faster, my other hand gripping the arm of my chair.
If I touched her now, she'd burn me alive. And I'd beg for the fire.
What is she doing to me? I'm the one who does the taking. I'm the one who makes women lose control. I don't sit in dark rooms watching screens like some lovesick fool.
But here I am, pumping my cock to the sight of a woman who doesn't even know I exist in her private moments. A woman I kidnapped. A woman who hates me.
The irony isn't lost on me. Matteo Rosetti, who's never had to work for anything in his life, reduced to this. To watching. To wanting what he can't simply reach out and take.
She turns slightly, profile visible now, and soap slides down her body. Her skin glistens in the candlelight, golden and wet. When she runs her hands through her hair, arching her back, I stroke myself harder, faster.
Look at her. Just look at her.
She doesn't know I'm here. But she's mine now. Mine to protect. Mine to watch. Mine to want. Mine to take apart until she's screaming my name.
The admission makes my hand move rougher. I've been telling myself this is about Chase, about leverage, about family business. But watching her now, seeing her like this, stroking my cock to the sight of her naked body, I know the truth.
I want her. Not as a pawn or a weapon or a means to an end. I want Isabella Callahan with a hunger that's going to consume me.
And the most twisted part? I like being consumed. I like that she's turned me into this. That she's made me desperate in a way no woman ever has.
She hums again, the melody drifting through the speakers, and my hips thrust into my fist. I imagine it's her mouth making those sounds around my cock, her hands on me instead of soapand water. I imagine pushing her against that glass shower wall and taking her until she can't remember her own name.
Would she fight me? Would she melt? Would she wrap those long legs around my waist and beg for more?
My breathing gets ragged as I watch her hands smooth soap over her stomach, lower, and I nearly lose control right there. Instead, I force myself to slow down, to match the rhythm of her movements. To pretend those are my hands on her skin.
This is torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture.
When she reaches for the body wash again, bending slightly, giving me a view that makes my vision blur, I lose what's left of my control. My hand moves faster, rougher, and I bite down on my knuckles to keep from groaning her name out loud.
She's everything. Every curve, every movement, every unconscious gesture that she has no idea is driving me insane. And she has no idea that she's destroying the most controlled man in New York one drop of water at a time.
I've never wanted anything the way I want her. Never needed to possess something so completely. The women before her were entertainment, relief, conquest. Isabella is something else entirely.
She's going to be the death of me. This untouchable woman who doesn't know she's making me lose my mind.
My cock throbs in my hand, close to the edge, and I force myself to slow down again. Not yet. Not like this. When I finally come, it's going to be inside her. Deep inside her while she's wrapped around me, taking everything I have to give.
The thought nearly breaks my resolve.
Then I catch myself before I can finish, slamming my free hand on the controls instead, cutting the feed.
The monitors go black, leaving me alone in the sudden darkness with my cock still hard in my hand and the taste ofher name on my tongue. I'm shaking, actually shaking, from the need to finish what she started without even knowing it.
But I don't. I tuck myself back into my pants, every movement torture, and lean back in my chair. My breathing is ragged, my body wound tight as a wire, and there's a sick satisfaction in denying myself what I want most.
Because when I finally do come, it's going to be inside her. Not to her image on a screen, not to fantasies and stolen glimpses. Inside Isabella Callahan's body while she screams my name.
The thought makes my cock throb painfully against my zipper.
I flip the coin once, twice, the familiar rhythm helping me regain some semblance of control. Somewhere upstairs, Isabella is finishing her shower, completely unaware that she's just turned my carefully ordered world upside down. Unaware that I'm sitting here hard and aching and half out of my mind with want for her.
The coin stills in my palm, and for the first time in years, I don't know what my next move should be. All I know is that the careful control I've built my life on is cracking, and she's the one holding the hammer.
She's burned into me now. Into my thoughts, my dreams, my blood. Every drop of water on her skin, every soft sound she made, every curve and valley of her body. It's all mine now. Seared into my memory where I can call it up whenever I want.
