“B-buttons…” she stammered.
“Leave the jacket on then. For now. Unbutton your blouse for me, Clarissa. Start at the top.” This time her hands trembled to obey him, as if powered by his will, his impatience. “Stop at the button just below your breasts.” She did. “Turn your phone to speaker mode. I want both your hands free.” She did that, too. “Now cross your hands inside your blouse, bellissima. Knead your breasts, then flick your nails over your nipples through your bra.” She fell back on the bed again, did as he instructed. “They’re hard now. Aching. Begging for my fingers, my lips and tongue and teeth.” And they were. How they were. “Do you remember the pressure I applied when I nipped them? Pinch them as hard.” She did, gasped, arched off the bed. “Again.” And again she did it, and every time he prodded her.
Fire raged through her. Her brain was sizzling, her chest, her eyes steaming, the heat in her gut converging to pour between her thighs, the pounding there beating to the frantic rhythm of her heart. She felt as if he’d taken over her body, was using her own hands as extensions of his lust, as if he was the one doing these things to her again. As he was. Whoever said the mind was the most powerful sex organ had been right. And he’d taken over hers.
“Pull your skirt up, touch your buttocks as I did, squeeze them.” She obeyed, unable to suppress her whimpers anymore. “It’s me doing it, pulling you against my erection, grinding into you. Spread your legs, Clarissa, let me have better access, open yourself and take more of me.”
She opened herself, could swear she felt him bearing down on her, the throbbing where he said he was, but wasn’t, becoming erratic with her heart’s short-circuiting rhythm.
“Now, do what you wanted me to do—what I would have done if you didn’t stop me. Cup yourself, Clarissa, tight. You’re burning now.” She was. And she couldn’t bear it. “Slip your hand inside your panties, spread your lips open. Now slide your fingers through your flowing nectar.” She did, keened, trembling on the edge now. His voice thickened, became harsh as gravel. “You’re melting, empty, losing your mind, unable to breathe with the hunger. I can see you, Clarissa, quaking on the edge of release. I can scent your need. I can feel your heart stampeding, your body tautening, your core demanding me.”
He stopped, drew in a shuddering breath.
Her lips trembled on a smile. He was as affected as she was, as distressed. His breath, when it rushed out, felt as if it filled her, the stimulus that almost tipped her over. She waited, needing it to be his words that did.
“But this stops here, mia magnifica. Anything more, you’ll have to come get it.”
Everything stilled, froze. The world. Her body. Her heart.
“I’m flying back to Castaldini as we speak.” His voice was crisp and distant all of a sudden, all intensity and intimacy evaporated. “I had to tend to some business, but I’ll be back in my mansion within the hour. You’ve gone a long way toward convincing me. I expect you to continue your…persuasion, then.”
Chapter Five
It was hours before Clarissa made herself leave her bed.
The first hour, she could barely move, think, breathe.
The frustration, the humiliation, had been paralyzing, suffocating. She’d tried to escape into oblivion. And to her enormous surprise, she succeeded. It seemed her nervous system had taken all it could, had done the one thing that would spare her real and lasting damage—shut down.
She woke up disoriented, sobbing.
More hours passed while she tried to regain semblance of equilibrium. She’d stood beneath scalding water and tried to let it wash away her confusion and anger—and most of all, the insidious craving Ferruccio had infused in her blood, the memory of those moments when he’d remote-controlled her, driven her to the brink of insanity, before withdrawing and leaving her feeling like she’d never stop falling. The next hour was spent going through the motions of drying her hair and getting dressed—and not in a skirt suit. Then she’d sat down at her computer table and finally let herself think. Let the one thought that now filled her being take the form of words.
She didn’t want to see or hear of Ferruccio ever again.
But she had to.
He’d demanded that she report to his mansion.
And she’d made her decision.
This ended tonight.
She’d tell him where he could stick his demands and terms. She was done being more fuel for his planetary-size ego. If he wanted to to punish her, and appease said ego, she’d assure him, he’d dealt her a blow that should satisfy him for the rest of his unnatural life. Then she would show him why he couldn’t refuse to be Castaldini’s crown prince, what was in it for him. So many things that didn’t include her. She’d persuade him, all right. To leave her out of the bargain and still go ahead with it.
With that fortifying hope powering her, she sprang into action.
The moment she left her apartments, Antonia descended on her like a disapproving mother eagle.
“Clarissa, can you tell me what exactly you’re trying to do here? Signore Selvaggio’s envoys arrived ten hours ago, saying you have an appointment with him!”
“And you didn’t swoop down on me the minute they arrived? That must be the minute hell froze over.”
“I did swoop down, many times. You were dead to the world. In your clothes. I gave up hours ago.”
“Take heart. It must have been that final trial that succeeded in yanking me out of my stupor.”
“What’s wrong with you, Clarissa? You sound…intoxicated.”
Clarissa barked a mirthless laugh. “You know what? I think you’re absolutely right, since intoxication happens when something rises in the blood to the level of toxicity.”
The woman looked as if she’d said the sun was checkered purple and blue. “You’re saying you’ve been consuming alcohol…or something even worse?”
Clarissa smirked. “I’d say arrogance and testosterone are definitely worse.”
Antonia looked to be at a total loss. “I’ve never seen you in this condition, Clarissa. Are you really sick? Or are you just trying to gloss over the fact that you disregarded an appointment with a man of Signore Selvaggio’s importance?”
Clarissa gave her a serene look. “Hey, I’m just fashionably late. That’s a woman’s prerogative, isn’t it?”
The raven-haired, green-eyed battleship of a woman, whom Clarissa loved dearly, dragon ferocity and military discipline and all, tutted. “You’re inexcusably, obscenely late. And you’re not ‘a woman,’ You’re a princess.”