Chapter 81

ROSALIND

Cesare's fingers travel up my waist, detonating every pleasure center until my skin feels like it's been set alight. I don't want to dwell too deeply on why my body feels so intensely for my former captor so soon after I was abducted by another.

There has to be more to our bond than some twisted psychological connection or a case of better the devil you know. When he scoops me up into his arms, my heart feels safe, protected. Cesare feels like home.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my arms wrapping around his neck.

"Taking you to the spa."

My stomach drops. "We're leaving the cabin?"

"If you're worried about your thalassophobia, I've ordered the crew to pull down all the blinds to the windows."

"I wouldn't call it a phobia," I mutter. "Just an awareness of its dangers."

He carries me across the cabin and out of the door into a hallway of white floors and polished mahogany walls. "Did something happen?"

His question triggers a memory of a long-forgotten academy training exercise, and a shiver runs down my spine. "No."

"Don't want to talk about it, love?" he says, his voice soft.

"Maybe later," I mumble and bury my face in his neck.

He doesn't push for more information. Instead, he cradles me to his chest. "You don't have to be so strong around me," he murmurs. "I know you've been through hell, and I want to take care of you."

His words are a balm on my frayed nerves. As unhinged as Cesare can be, he's one of the few men I've met who want to look beyond the surface. A terrible trait from an interrogator, but wonderful as a boyfriend.

Boyfriend?

I shake off that thought. We're more like enemies who have agreed to a truce. A little voice in my head asks about the fucking, but I focus on the rhythm of Cesare's steps and the thud of his heartbeat against my ear. There's no point in classifying an arrangement that's only temporary.

We continue down a set of stairs, passing blacked out portholes, and I notice the boat isn't rocking.

"Are we still out at sea?" I ask.

"We're moored in St. Anne's Marina," he says. "Does that make a difference?"

"Don't know," I reply with a nervous chuckle.

At the bottom of the stairs, he opens a door, letting out the calming scent of cedar. He steps into the spa, a long space of wooden walls divided by a glass wall.

Cesare carries me down a walkway that separates a glass-fronted sauna and a narrow exercise pool that hums with its own current. At the very end of the spa, he lays me on a stone table beside a condensation-covered wall, which I can only guess leads to a steam room.

This is a hundred times more tasteful than the party yacht Matteo shared with his brother.

As he pulls off my t-shirt, I gaze up at him and smile. "What now?"

He flicks his head toward the ceiling, where a series of recessed shower heads glint in the dim light. "Now, we get you nice and clean."

Before I can ask any more questions, he steps to a small corner console and flips a series of switches. Warm water sprays from the shower heads above, drenching every inch of my body.

A laugh bursts from my chest at the sudden downpour, which washes away an entire layer of tension. I turn to Cesare as he pulls off his boxers, exposing his long, thick erection.

My gaze bounces to the quartet of piercings studding its crown to the bottle he picks off a shelf.

"Magnolia bodywash, okay?"

A breath catches in the back of my throat. "Did Miranda tell you that's my favorite flower?"

He shakes his head. "It's your signature scent."

"Most people can't tell the difference between one flower and the other."

"Our garden used to be full of magnolia trees."

"But not anymore?"

His smile fades. "I removed them."

That's when I remember Magnolia trees featured heavily in the photos of Cesare and his mother. One picture that stands out is of her sitting beneath the sprawling branches, pulling him close to her chest, when he was about five or six.

"Why?" I ask, reaching out to touch his arm.

"She left us without explaining." He returns to the table and pours the liquid soap into his hands. "The only time we got to see her was in the society pages. She loved those trees, but they became a constant reminder that her love for us was all bullshit."

"Did you ever speak to her after she left?"

"A few times," he mutters, his gaze dropping to the magnolia-scented lather building up in his palms. "What she had to say was difficult to hear."

"I'm sorry."

"It's in the past."

He runs his soapy hands over my breasts, his fingers tracing over my curves. His touch is practiced, delicate, and more soothing than I care to admit.

As my muscles melt under his ministrations, I exhale a long sigh, and gaze up to find the pain hidden behind his eyes. I regret digging into old wounds, especially when he was careful not to pry into mine.

His hands glide down my waist, tracing the contours of my hips before sliding down my thighs. His touch is unhurried, as though he's sculpting me out of stone.

I study the intricate design adorning his chest, noting that the skull between his biceps is feminine and surrounded by angel wings. My fingers trace over the tattooed skull wearing a crown on his forearm.

"What do they represent?" I ask.

"Everyone I've lost," he says, his fingers reaching between my thighs. "The skull king is my dad, and then above it is my uncle."

"And the one on your chest?"

He gives me a wry smile. "My grandma. She was an angel."

I want to ask more, but his finger circles my clit, and the question dies in my throat, replaced by a gasp. His pale eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes my mind scatter.

When he smirks, I know he touched me on purpose so I would shut the fuck up. My thighs part to give him more access to my pussy, and my hips jerk in time to his movements.

"Do you like that, pet?" he asks.

"Don't call me that," I say without heat.

"Tell me to stop, and I will." His fingers pick up their pace.

Biting back a moan, I jerk my head to the side. My fingers curl into fists at the return of the version of Cesare whose balls I want to crush.

He chuckles, the sound deep and low, sending shivers down my spine. "Nobody touches you but me and nobody ties you up but me."

"For a split second, I thought I'd unlocked your inner sensitivity. Now you're back to being insufferable."

His digits move deeper, obliterating my senses and making my arch back off the platform. "If this is suffering, then I'll add that nobody gets to torment you but me."

"Oh fuck," I say through panting breaths.

"I washed off that bastard's touch." He leans down and nips my ear. "Now it's time to mark you as mine."

His fingertips grazed a sensitive spot deep within me that detonates a series of explosions. Pleasure ripples through my body, making my breath catch. My mind spirals, and I lose myself in the intensity of his touch. All the other bullshit melts away as he sets my insides on fire.

I grab his shoulders, trying to anchor myself, my fingernails digging into his biceps. Water continues cascading down on us both, washing away all traces of the liquid soap.

"Are you coming for me, little pet?"

"Not even close," I lie through shallow pants.

He grins that super wide grin that used to make my stomach lurch. Now, that look sends heat shooting through my core.

"Are you sure about that?" he asks, his voice dangerous and low. "Because if you're not satisfied, I can bring out the toys."

I try to clamp my thighs shut around his hand, but that only encourages him to press harder on that spot until I'm writhing beneath him, trying to stifle my strangled gasps.

Satisfaction flickers across his features as he continues tormenting my sensitive walls. I never knew I was capable of multiple orgasms, but he's drawing out every ounce of pleasure until I see stars.

"You're coming at my command like a good little pet," he murmurs, lips brushing against my ear. "

The second orgasm feels like he's plugged me into a socket. Pleasure courses through my system with volts of electricity, making my muscles convulse. Every inch of my skin becomes a raw nerve, and even the water hitting my skin feels like molten caresses. The intensity is almost too much to handle, and I fill the room with screams.

What the hell is this man doing to me?

If I don't take control of him, I'll end up exactly where he wants me—begging and kneeling at his feet for another hit of pleasure.

Another surge of ecstasy overwhelms my circuits, making the thought fizzle away.

Eventually, the sensations fade, and I finally catch my breath. "My body isn't a switch you can turn on and off."

"Want to bet?" His fingers press down on that spot.

My hand whips out, and I grab his cock. "Take your fingers out of my pussy or I'll rip it out by the root."