Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
I press my palm against her crotch, feeling her warmth through the fabric. She gasps and shifts her hips, her moans like strokes of desire against my rigid arousal. Desire seeps from me as I intensify my ministrations.
"Tell me I'm not in control now, piccola pittrice."
"You're... not..." She gasps, synchronizing her movements with my hand's rhythm, seemingly involuntarily. I struggle to maintain focus on the road. This is reckless—not merely because of traffic, but because of us. How can I experience her perfect, responsive body, then forget her?
I need to keep this casual. One night.
She grips my wrist. Initially, I think she’s going to push me away. We're driving down a quiet street, but she's still trying to be subtle. Her body trembles as her climax approaches. She subtly adjusts my hand, and I respond with increased fervor.
Her moans transform into gasps, as if oxygen eludes her. She turns aside, biting her shirt collar to suppress a scream. I continue relentlessly, only withdrawing when we run into traffic.
"That was... unexpected," she murmurs.
"Indeed," I snarl.
"Don't apologize," she says.
"I had no intention to."
"Oh—good. Some men might."
"I don’t care what your other men did."
"I didn't specify my men," she replies. "But yes, that was... satisfying. A memorable way to remember each other."
"We'll meet again."
She adjusts her clothing. "But not like this."
I touch her leg again, but at the knee. I don’t want anyone else to witness her complete surrender to pleasure, her full-body tremors. My arousal rises at the mere thought.
"If you insist," I say fiercely. "But I suspect you'll miss being bad."
"Why this sudden tough act? Is this your Don routine?"
"This is who I am, Vignette, with everyone."
"I thought the nicknames were confined to miniature golf. You should probably drop them."
"I would if you didn't clearly relish them."
"Pfft. You flatter yourself." But she's lying. She can’t hide it from me. Our minds may be adversaries, but our bodies communicate with perfect clarity. "So, you don’t believe this one-night thing is real?"
"After kissing you, touching you, forgetting is impossible."
"You have to. This was just casual fun."
"Fine, maintain that pretense. But don't rule out more 'casual entertainment.'"
"No—rule it out."
“We'll see," I say, squeezing her leg. "But when I touch you thus, even at the knee, you quiver. Your body heats. For me, piccola pittrice."
"N-no," she stammers, convincing no one. She pushes my hand away. "If you’re not going to be straight with me, at least acknowledge when I say we've gone back to square one. Just like that." She snaps her fingers. "Now, you're just the hedge fund executive, and I'm simply the artist."
"I refuse to go back. I won't forget what your perfect body feels like. Or how you light me up. I certainly won't tonight."
She regards me with intrigue, excitement, feigning indignation. "What do you mean—tonight?"
"Care to speculate, Vignette?"
"Are you saying you'll think of me and..."
"You've already driven me to distraction."
"Have I? Not that I care..."
"Sure," I say. "I mean it. From our first encounter, I was captivated, Sienna. Completely enthralled by you. You're beautiful, unique, artistic, quirky... and profoundly sensual. Incandescently sensual."
"Incandescent?" she murmurs.
"I think you know. You like it."
She bites her lip, shaking her head. Either she's reading my mind and knows my triggers, or she's naturally this alluring. "Perhaps," she says softly. "I might have fantasized about discovering someone... and maybe, recently, since seeing you, I embellished those details. I might have entertained some silly notions because talking with you feels easier than it should. But that was before, Nico. Be. Fore."
Her expression hardens with resolve. " You know what I’m saying. You understand my reasoning."
"We should exercise restraint," I tell her.
Not solely due to her convictions. I'm escorting Anya to an upcoming gala. I can’t risk offending the Russians, despite my growing weariness with appeasement. I feel my darker impulses surfacing.
"We should," I reiterate. "But your presence brings out a new side of me."
"That's flattering. Truly. But put that aside. One night—and it's over."
"The night hasn't yet ended."
She crosses her arms defiantly. "Yes, it has."
Chapter Twelve
Sienna
It’s two days until my next portrait appointment. I dedicate the intervening time to my surrealist work, mundane errands, and deliberately not thinking about Nico. At least, that's my intention. I attempt to block him from my thoughts, focusing on anything else. But it proves challenging.
I continually anticipate his call, text, or unexpected appearance, despite explicitly communicating my disinterest. When he touched me in the car, it was like letting go for the first time in my life. I didn’t need to think or feel.
His touch radiated heat. Something intoxicating permeated that fleeting moment of belonging to him. Just for that instant.
On the morning of my latest portrait – a painting of one of Gianna's friends – Gianna calls. "Honey, I'm so sorry."
"What's up?" I ask, eager to get to work.
Not eager to see Nico. Not eager to discover if he can unearth anything about Mom's death. Not eager to feel his touch against my skin again, to experience the electricity when our bodies connect.