29. Gigi

29

GIGI

He's played me. But not really. We were sparring when we made those stupid terms, working each other up. I've underestimated him. In the past few days, Stephano has been different. Super focused. My first impression of him holds true: he's one of the most dangerous men I've ever met. Not only because he is in such control of himself, but because he is always five steps ahead of me.

I was stupid not to think this would come my way. He did, after all, say this would be a proper marriage.

With no kissing and zero sex.

There's no chance that's going to last. That notion of control I'll have by denying him? I can already feel myself slipping. This isn't forever. Only until we can safely go back to Italy. The sooner, the better. I'll have to be strong.

Problem is, I've been attracted to him since the very first moment I saw him on the Cannes marina, when he caught me when I stumbled. And he's just a man. He wants me. I can see it in his eyes, in the way his gaze travels over my body. He might not have caved in on the night of the auction because he had a point to prove, but he's just playing plain dirty now, and so will I. Whatever happens next, I can't give in to him.

I take in the big room. Mirrored cupboards line one wall, doubling the space, and a door between leads to the en suite bathroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the room give views over the park and city scape. Two occasional chairs face a fireplace in that corner, and around it, bookshelves cover the wall, forming a reading snug. This man is full of surprises I didn't foresee. I bet his mom read bedtime stories to her kids, just as I did to Carla.

Center stage stands the one and only bed. It's big and made up in slick grey silk that I can almost feel on my naked skin.

"It's perfect," I say, because it is. It's the perfect nest of seduction, just as he planned it.

I walk deeper into the room, making my way to the windows. The view is magnificent. Wispy clouds tinged in soft oranges and pinks stretch across the sky in the last sun rays.

With a deep inhale and focus, I turn to him. He might have control over every inch of his being, but I'm used to delayed satisfaction. I know how to bide my time and play the long game. I'll wear him down by not caving in, and hopefully, by the time I can't stand it any longer, the divorce papers will be signed.

As I walk towards Stephano where he stands two feet away from the stairs, I pull the pins from my hair. It hasn't been over-styled, and now, the thick tresses cascade in soft waves to my bare shoulders.

"Can you help me with the dress's buttons?" The long row leads the eye from the middle of my back down to my butt where it widens the dress enough to slip it off. I didn't think this far, but I can't unbutton all of them without help. It is, after all, a wedding dress and needs assistance getting on and off.

"Sure." He steps up, and I turn my back to him.

He's so close, I can feel his breathing and then his soft touch to my shoulder as he sweeps my hair to the side. My body reacts to the simple, slow caress—a frisson of desire spreads over my skin to harden my nipples. And then his fingers glide down to fiddle with the silk-covered buttons, his knuckles softly kissing my skin with each one.

It's torture because it makes me feel like a true bride being undressed by her beloved, in an arousing game of seduction that's going nowhere tonight. With every inch he progresses to the last one in the row, need builds in my core, and desire wets me right where I want him to go so badly.

This isn't new. Despite everything that's passed, I've been wanting a repeat of the night in Cannes since I arrived in Boston, from the moment Stephano hugged me close at the airport and promised to take care of me.

I have no clue what it is with this promise that makes me weak. I've been independent for so long, but since this fiasco with Franco Fiore and us becoming fugitives, I've craved for someone else to help me—to hold me, even if only by my hand. I've been on alert for ten long years, and now with the real danger here, I've depleted my energy to cope with it.

I drop my head forward, overwhelmed, and Stephano's hands still, his knuckles resting gently against my skin.

God. If only he were predictable like every other man, but he's never been.

"Gigi?"

I tremble at the soft tone in which he says my name and sway unsteady on my feet. I want to lean back into him.

"I'm fine," I whisper, but I'm not.

His hand skims to my shoulder, and he makes me turn around to face him. His fingers trace a line down my arm, and every nerve in me seems to melt into a pile of wanton threads just begging for him to unknot them. I'm defenseless against his touch, and I can't afford to submit to him.

"I'll be the judge of that," he says, his voice husky. My dress isn't loose enough yet to fall forward and expose my breasts, but his eyes don't even dip there as his gaze locks with mine. "Have you been sleeping? Like at all?"

I have no idea how he picked up on it because I've done everything to hide the dark circles under my eyes. As safe as Matteo's place was, with Carla right next door at night, memories of Franco and what he'll do to me if he finds us invade every quiet hour. Now, I want to cry, and I've always been one to keep tears at bay, with a firm hold on my emotions.

"Answer me, Gigi," he says with a squeeze to my hand, and all I can do is shake my head.

He pulls me to the haven of his chest and holds me a long minute as I battle for control over my tears. My stupid vengeful heart still wants him to succumb to me , to get back at him for that night in Cannes. I want him to lose control, but I can't. My heart is more at stake with every minute I spend with this man.

"You can stop running, angel," he murmurs in my ear. "I've got you. For ten years, you've been running, but you need to stop. Let him come to you, and then I will deal with him."

His words trap a sob in my throat, but I can't contain it anymore. I break, and it feels as if this man has been poised for decades to catch me. I lean into his warmth as tears stream down my cheeks at his unexpected understanding of everything my life has been for the past ten years.

I take a couple of heaving breaths, but don't pull away. His hands are back on my dress's buttons, and this time, it's even more intimate as he works his way ever lower while hugging me close.

"Let's get you to bed. You need to sleep. Everything looks so much worse when you're exhausted."

The dress slips from my body, but Stephano catches it and helps me step out as I hold on to his arm for balance. I'm shy and not because he's about to see most of me—he's already seen it all that first time. I'm shy because he's sliced through every defense I've had in place and peered straight into my soul.

His eyes rake over my body, from my bare breasts partly covered by my hair, down to my seamless panties and lacy thigh-highs. He sucks in a breath as his eyes home in on the little tease of fabric that came with the dress and that for some idiotic reason I'd put on.

"Is that a garter, Mrs. Scalera?"

"It came with the wedding dress," I breathe. "No point in throwing it to the bachelors, because I'd rather not let them know it was there?—"

"And everything is fake, and when it comes to marriage, we Scalera boys are two down, three to go?" he says with a quirked brow as he crowds me with his body, forcing me to step backwards in the direction of the bed. "Damn fucking skippy my brothers don't get to touch something that was so close to your pussy."

Oh my God. "Steph—" I break off as the back of my thighs hit the bed, and with him towering over me, I sink back to sit.

There's no fear here, just pure, undiluted anticipation of what he's going to do next as I drown in my own desire for him to touch me.