Page 21 of Revenge

He arrives in front of me and brushes the backs of his knuckles over the tip of my beaded nipple.

I can't suppress the shock of pleasure that ripples through me. The outward shiver that gives me away.

“Do you want me to touch you, Dahlia?” He pinches my nipple lightly between two of his knuckles and tugs. “Do you want me to show you the kind of pleasure I was describing over dinner?”

My breath comes in with tiny gasps and pants.

“N-no.” I'm not very convincing. The truth is, now that he's standing here before me, over six feet of glorious muscle and man, I do want him to touch me.

I want to find out exactly what he meant about pleasuring me with his tongue.

I'm not completely ignorant nor innocent. I certainly know how to use my own fingers to bring myself pleasure. I’ve used a pillow between my legs at night.

And every single time I was fantasizing about this man right here.

And now to find out that he does hold all the sexual secrets I imagined, that I may not have built him up to be something he wasn’t, it’s all just too much.

One of Antonio's large hands settles on my hip, and the warmth of his roughened palm against my skin generates heat in my core. He continues to tease my nipple. It’s starting to burn and tingle, making me needy for more.

Between my legs, there’s an answering pulse. Hot, tender neediness that squeezing my thighs together doesn’t alleviate. He trails his fingers lightly over my hip, then down the side of my thigh.

I try to suppress the trembling that started in my legs.

His fingertips trace up my buttocks. “Do you think your precious mayor could make you feel this way, Dahlia?”

“He's not my precious mayor,” I choke out. I don't know why I give Antonio the satisfaction, though.

Antonio shifts his fingers from my nipple to lightly trace up the column of my neck until his index finger arrives at my chin. He gently nudges it up until I look him in the eye. “No?”

I find myself shaking my head. “It was an arranged marriage.”

“Like ours,” he says as if satisfied.

“This was not an arranged marriage. You stole me from my groom!”

As soon as I speak the words, I wish I hadn't because Antonio's face darkens, and he takes a step back from me. I immediately register the loss of his touch. Crave his attention.

“Ah, yes. A groom far more worthy of the yacht princess. Too bad. You're cursed to slumming with a blue collar brute for the rest of your days, Principessa.”

My stomach knots as I realize the bitterness in Antonio's tone is borne of the degradation and treatment he received at the hands of my father and our penal system.

I'm sure the jury took one look at the working-class son of Italian immigrants and assumed he'd done everything my father accused him of.

“I don’t believe you’re a thief, Antonio.” I make my voice soft. Conciliatory.

Antonio’s eyes narrow. He holds my jaw with an overhand grip “You should.” He brings his face close to mine. So close I feel the heat of his breath feathering over my lips. “Believe it, Dahlia. Know that I’m going to keep on stealing from you for the rest of your life.”

Chapter Five

Antonio

“Buongiorno,” Angelo, one of my hired servants murmurs, rushing to my side when I crack an eye against the sun.

Fuck. Did I pass out on the deck last night?

I’m sprawled in a chaise lounge, my white tuxedo shirt unbuttoned to my chest.

Angelo holds a tray with various juice options–orange, grapefruit, tomato. Or is that a Bloody Mary? My stomach turns. I reach for the orange juice.