Chapter 23

TWENTY-THREE

Sabella

My breath catches in my throat. My heart starts pounding, my pulse keeping time in my temples. The beat is like a hammer in my brain.

I stare at the sight in front of me, battling to process that it's real. That he's real. That he's truly here and not just in my head.

"Hello, Sabella," Angelo says, his voice suave like velvet.

I swallow away the dryness of my mouth. Anger masks my fear. "What are you doing here?"

"You didn't think I'd forget your birthday?"

The words are like déjà vu. Their meaning chokes me. "How did you get into my room?"

His lips curve. "With a keycard of course."

If the receptionist gave him one, he must have bribed her. I return his smile, mine wry. "Money always buys you what you want, doesn't it?"

He gets up, the movement lithe like a panther's.

I glance at the door.

"Don't even think about it," he says, rounding the bed. "You don't want me to chase you through the casino with everyone bearing witness."

I back up, hitting a barrier of bricks as Angelo pauses a step away from me.

Faking calm, I fold my hands behind me and lean on the wall. "It was you." My accusation is sharp and bitter. "In the club. You were there." Then it hits me. "You wanted me to see you."

He cuts a path over me with his gaze. "You look beautiful. It was hard to let you have your fun in that sinfully sexy dress. The only thing that prevented me from dragging you out of the club is that you've been a very good girl." He closes the last step between us, stopping too close. "You didn't dance with another man. That made me very happy."

My pulse is all over the place, the rhythm of my heartbeat erratic now. He allowed me to see him because he chose to. He let it happen when he wanted to. "How long have you been watching me like a creep?"

The insult doesn't faze him. "Since the beginning."

"Why didn't you show yourself earlier?"

He considers the question for a couple of beats. "I enjoyed watching you. I liked seeing the men drool after you even though they couldn't touch you."

"How do you know they weren't going to touch me? Who said I wouldn't let them?"

"I'd never let that happen."

"You're crazy."

He leans closer, pressing the length of his body against mine. Fixing a heated gaze on my mouth, he asks in a husky voice, "Did you save your first dance for me?"

His proximity does things to me, things I can't control. My body tightens, and a flame licks my belly.

"Why, Angelo." My tone is sarcastic. "Are you here to claim another first?"

He presses closer still, letting me feel his weight. His heat. The threat of his mere presence. The hardness growing against my stomach.

"Why, Sabella?" he parrots, studying me with a mocking light in his darker-than-night eyes. "Is that what you're hoping? That I'm here to take?"

It's difficult to breathe when he occupies all my space. It's impossible to think with the silent nuance of that taunt trapped between us and with the truth that spills like liquid heat between my legs.

My weakness angers me. That I still want him after everything he's done infuriates me. His power over me terrifies me.

It's the anger and the fear that make me lash out, needling him in turn. It's the alcohol in my blood that makes me brave. Irresponsible. "Don't hold your breath." My laugh is cold. "That first is no longer up for grabs."

The change in him is instant and terrifying. Fury contorts his features. Calculation hardens the lines of his face. "Do not lie to me. Not about that."

The thread stretches thinly between us. I sense the snap, but I don't shut my mouth. "What? Did you really think Roch could be everywhere? In a dirty toilet stall in the mall? On the backseat of a car? In a dark parking lot? Behind the?—"

The muscles of his jaw bunch as he strikes faster than I can anticipate, fisting his hand in my hair and tugging my face up. "You don't want to go there. Not with me."

"Oh." I blink, making an innocent face. "I thought you might want the juicy details. Where it happened. How many times we did it." I'm pushing, not caring that I'm taking us over the edge. "How big his cock was."

He spits out the words. "You're lying."

"Really?" I hold his gaze with a brazen challenge. "Am I?"

He tightens his fingers in my hair. My scalp stings where he's pulling the roots, but I doubt the discomfort he inflicts is conscious. He's too consumed with fury to register the strength of his grip.

"Last chance to be honest, bella."

I hate the invisible chains he put on me. I want to break them so badly I'll do anything, even let him believe the lie. "It was amazing. Best fuck of my life. There. I've confessed. That first wasn't yours. Do you know what the best part was? It was knowing you wouldn't get what you wanted. That alone made every second enjoyable."

The look in his eyes shifts. The chilling expression on his face almost makes me want to retract the untruth I told, but the impulse only lasts for a second before a buildup of frustration and resentment that stretched over months steels my heart again.

"My, you look disappointed. I bet you're dying to know what you missed out on. Are you sure you don't want the details, Angelo?"

"There's only one thing I'm interested in," he says measuredly, his nostrils flaring. "His name."

I purse my lips.

"Who?" He shakes me. "Give me his name."

I meet his cold rage and blazing jealousy head on, taking satisfaction from hitting him where he's most vulnerable—his ego. "So that you can do what?" I laugh. "Get Roch to throw him in the pool? Beat him up?"

The corners of his eyes crinkle. "Never mind." His smile is cruel. "I'll find out." Wrapping his free hand around my neck, he applies slight pressure. "When I kill him, it won't matter that he's been inside you." He watches me, letting me see the intention in his eyes. "You know why?" He swoops in, inhaling deeply as he drags his nose over my temple before pressing a whisper on my ear. "I'm going to fuck him out of you."

That's when I get scared, when the promise turns me on instead of disgusting me. He lifts my hair to his nose and, like he did with my skin, breathes me in like a male animal sniffing a female. Like a predator deciding if the flesh in his claws is prey.

When he's had his fill, he gently drapes my hair over one shoulder exactly like the hairstylist arranged it. For some reason, this frightens me the most—that I didn't notice for how long he'd been watching me. Stalking me. That I didn't see him sooner. But I felt him. My instinct wasn't wrong.

At the same time as his weight lifts off me, the iron vise of his fingers around my neck tightens. He uses the leverage to hold me in place while reaching between us with his free hand. It takes me a moment to realize what he's doing. I don't fully believe it until I hear the clank of his buckle. The grate of his zipper.

I bring my hands from behind my back and splay my palms over his chest. Instead of pushing him away, I bury my fingers beneath the fabric of his jacket. The push and pull is like being caught in a current, but it's not the gentle lapping of the sea on the shore at low tide. It's the rough and violent lashing of spring tide.

He grips my wrist, squeezing with too much force. I look down. His fly is open, and his cock is freed. He's hard, his thick length jutting out from the dark fabric of his pants. It's the only part of him that's undressed, the most intimate part. The sight is erotic, more than I expected. He's big, the crown large. I home in on the veins running under the velvety skin along his shaft, on how the skin around the head is darker, and on the moisture leaking from the tip.

"You shouldn't have done that," he says, lifting my hand to his lips and sucking my thumb into his mouth. His tongue is warm and wet, the tip curling around my digit. He pulls my thumb from his lips and drops my hand. "You're going to regret it."

I don't know if he means taking off his ring or allegedly giving my v-card to someone else. Both, probably.

I almost do regret it when he bunches the hem of my dress in his hand and yanks it up to my waist. I'm watching him watching me, his gaze fixed on the triangle of silk that's damp with my arousal.

He fastens his hold on my neck, giving me just enough air to breathe. Not enough. "You're ungrateful and disobedient. Behaving like a slut doesn't become you." He eases his grip a little, letting me drag in a lungful of oxygen. "What did you do with my ring?"

I don't know what comes over me. Maybe I just want him to take this too, to break the magic spell he's cast on me so that this can be over. To take my last first and let me live in peace.

Another untruth tumbles from my lips, its cruelness sparked by a desperate need to even the score between us. "I gave it to him. He took it as payment for popping my cherry." The nasty fabrication is vile, but he's the one who taught me to lie.

He closes his hand so hard around my neck that my vision goes blurry. His face is a fuzzy picture behind a veil of fog as he dips his fingers under the elastic of my thong and tugs. A rip tears through the space. The thong slides down my thighs and brushes my ankles. My sight fades around the edges as I feel him between my legs, a hot, hard, velvet fist that wedges between my folds. We're both slick. When he brushes the tip over my clit, pleasure hits my core.

"You're such a slut, Sabella," he says, his words coming to me through a gushing noise in my ears.

As if to validate the statement, I curl my fingers around the lapels of his jacket, instinctively holding on.

He taps my clit two, three times with the head of his cock, a light reprimand. A sweet punishment. "But you're my slut."

Proving the point, he tears into me.

I think I may pass out, and not from a lack of air. The way it hurts is excruciating. My lips part, but no sound escapes. It's the worst torture, being torn in two.

He stills, pulls back to look at me, and eases up the pressure on my neck. His face comes back into focus. Somehow, I feel everything more intensely, as if my nerve endings have been starved for oxygen like my lungs, and the sudden rush brought on an onslaught of sensations.

"No," he says, sounding angry. Concerned. "No, no, no." He looks down at where we're joined. "Sabella, you're a wicked liar."

The vengeance isn't as satisfying as I thought it would be. The buzz of the alcohol isn't enough to dull the discomfort when he starts moving. I bite off a cry of pain.

"Shh," he says, his jaw muscles flexing. "The damage is done. We have to finish this now."

And he does. He pushes deeper, stretching me further. Going all the way. He doesn't stop until I've taken every inch of him.

Breathing hard, he leans his forehead against mine and locks his hands around my hips. Then he pulls out until only the head is lodged inside and impales me again. His movements are rough and uncoordinated. He seems to battle to control himself. Like me, he appears to be struggling with the torrent of stimulation. He jostles me between his palms until he finds a rhythm that works for him.

Unable to keep up or to follow, I burrow my face in his neck and simply let it happen, embracing the pain, but just as I do, the stretch turns to pleasure. My inner muscles submit to the intrusion. I inhale his scent. He smells like citrus and cedar and sex. His skin tastes like salt where I'm pressing my lips on the pulse that beats in his throat.

He tenses, his neck muscles straining.

He comes.

It's over.

Yet he continues to pump himself dry. He thrusts until he softens inside me, waiting and watching.

He braces a hand on the wall next to my face, his arm a rigid, solid mass of muscle under his jacket. "Did you come?"

Biting my lip, I shake my head.

He nods. Pulls out. Looks down.

I follow his gaze. We're a mess, covered in my blood and his cum.

"Sabella." He grips my chin and tilts my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Why would you lie about this?" His voice is pained. "Is this what you wanted? How you wanted it to happen?"

I look away, sagging a little as I let the wall carry my weight. My legs aren't up for the task. My limbs are heavy, my arms like lead. I barely manage to pull down my dress and cover myself. "I'm drunk."

His voice is level. "I know."

Lifting me into his arms, he carries me to the bathroom. It's a big bathroom with a spa tub. My parents didn't spare any expenses. He deposits me on the closed lid of the toilet and strips. I watch as his clothes come off, first the jacket, then his shoes and socks, and finally his shirt. He's lean but strong, his muscles a portrait of perfect masculinity.

The ink on his chest holds my attention. Two salivating wolves with vicious teeth are in a stare-off. The artwork is exquisite. It's the first time I get a good look at it, and I itch to trace the ornate outlines framing the black picture with my fingertips. A single word is inked over the deep lines that cut with a V into his waistband.

Resilience.

It's fitting. The word sums up everything he represents and is.

He pops the button of his pants and shoves them with his briefs down his thighs. He's big and toned everywhere, his powerful legs well-proportioned. His cock is semi-hard again, tinted with the color of our lust.

Our sin.

A mistake.

He leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor and, fastening his hands around my upper arms, drags me up. I sway as he finds the zipper on the side of my dress and pulls it down. He pushes the thin straps over my shoulders and brushes the fabric over my hips. Wrapping his arms around me, he unclasps the strapless bra at my back. For a fleeting moment, I thought he was hugging me. I'm glad he wasn't. It was too tempting to lean into the embrace and soak up his heat.

When I'm naked, my automatic reaction is to cover myself with my hands, but he takes my wrists and arranges my arms at my sides.

"No." He cups my cheeks between his palms. "Let me look at you."

The gentleness of the act catches me off guard. He traces my jaw with a finger before brushing his knuckles over the curve of my neck. He takes his time to study me, following up each look with a touch by weighing my breast in his palm and feeling the shape of my nipple between his fingers. He measures the dip of my navel and the swell of my stomach before trailing a path down my thighs. Then he reverses his direction to sample how the globes of my ass fill his hands.

I'm too mesmerized by the reverence in his eyes to stop him. He's looking at me like he's never seen a naked woman. The fascination and sensual awe that are written in his features give me power I've never had.

When he's finally satisfied, he turns on the tap in the shower. After testing the water, he pulls me by the hand into the stall with him. He's unrushed and meticulous, cleaning every inch of my body and massaging my scalp when he shampoos my hair. He's gentle when he washes away the blood between my legs.

He takes less time for himself, his movements efficient and economic. I'm absorbed in studying his actions, in having this intimate glimpse of a man's grooming routine, so when he pushes me down onto the bench and kneels in front of me, I'm taken by surprise.

Holding my gaze, he cups my knees and pushes my thighs apart. The water runs over his head and down his back, making his dark hair look blacker and slicker than oil.

"What are you doing?" I ask, gripping his shoulders.

He observes me from hooded eyes as he lowers his head and buries his face between my legs. The soft press of his lips on my clit makes my eyelids flutter closed. When he parts me with his tongue and traces the seam of my opening, my hips lift off the bench of their own accord.

"Does it feel good?" he asks.

I open my eyes. Angelo kneeling between my legs is one of the hottest sights I've seen. Despite the fact that he's the one on his knees, he looks powerful. Scary. As if he holds my future in his hands. As if he can either give me pleasure or break me at his will.

"This?" He licks my clit, making my toes curl. "Or this?" He gives my opening the same treatment.

I moan. "Both."

"You didn't come when I was inside you." There's vulnerability in his words. A tinge of uncertainty. "Did I not last long enough?"

"I don't know."

"How do you normally come?"

Frowning, I try to pull away, but he holds fast, keeping my legs spread.

"Why do you want to know?" I ask.

"We're not done. I didn't get you off."

"Are you pretending to care about my pleasure?"

His smile is chastising. "I don't do things in half-measures."

"So, it's about your ego and not?—"

He clamps his lips down on my clit before I can finish my sentence. What I was going to say flies through the window as he nips before sucking.

It only takes a few seconds. I come so hard it feels as if an electric current is running through my body, convulsing my muscles. In the back of my mind, I'm worried that he won't like my taste, but I'm too zoned out with the aftershocks racking my body to give it another thought.

Sitting back on his haunches, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sets my mind at ease with, "You're a real treat. I can get addicted to eating your pussy. How hard did you come?"

I'm too lethargic to answer, which is an answer in itself.

Satisfaction sparks in his eyes. "Next time, bella, we'll come together."

I want to say there won't be a next time, but he's already scooping me up in his arms and putting me on my feet. He turns off the water and grabs a towel from the rail that he drapes around my shoulders. After drying me and squeezing most of the water out of my hair, he leaves me on the rug outside the stall to dry himself off.

This is the version of Angelo I got to know during the first year after we'd met, the broody and Byronic man who's kind and gentle with me. Only, deceiving and using someone isn't kindness.

I make to turn for the door, but his words stop me.

"Don't move."

He drops the towel and picks me up.

"Put me down," I say.

"Are you going to make fighting me a habit?" He walks to the bed and dumps me on the mattress. "There. Happy?"

Pulling the duvet over me, I try to cover my body, but he yanks it away, climbs onto the bed, and crawls over me. His heat is intoxicating. The touch of his skin against mine is soothing and soft. Warm. I want to curl up in the safety of his strong arms, but I can't forget that we're enemies. I can't forget what happened, not when I turned seventeen and not what we just did.

He hovers over me, studying my face.

"We're done," I say. "You got me off. Why aren't you leaving?"

An unfriendly smile plucks at his lips. "We're not done by a long shot, cara."

"What do you still want?" I ask, tired—no, exhausted—and in no shape to fight clever or with words.

"Plenty. Starting with making sure you understand that if you ever lie to me like that again, I'll take my belt to you, and I won't be playing. The welts I'll leave on your pretty ass will be the proof."

"Anything else?" I ask with sarcasm.

"If you do manage to evade Roch and fuck another man in a dirty alley, in a public toilet, on the backseat of a car, or any-fucking-where else, I'll kill Roch for failing in his job. Then I'll go after every man who laid a finger on you."

He can't be serious. "You're out of your mind."

"I'll be very clear. If that happens, bella, you'll be signing those men's death warrants. Their murder will be on your conscience."

No, he's not joking. The statement is enormous. I don't want to believe it, but I do. Angelo is the kind of man who means what he says.

I don't understand his possessiveness. "You got what you wanted. Now, go. Leave me in peace."

His reply is calm, almost soothing. "No."

The unreasonable stubbornness only confuses me more. "I'm tired. I just want to sleep."

"I know, cara." His voice is soft. "You can sleep soon but not yet."

"Why?" I ask with frustration. "There can't be anything to add after all that you've said."

He rests his weight on one elbow and brushes the wet hair from my forehead. "I saved myself for you, Sabella. I waited a long time for you. A very long time. That's why."

I saved myself for you.

He can't mean what I think he does. Not Angelo. Not the handsome, darkly alluring, virile man with the body of a god and a cock that presses against my stomach like a steel rod. Not a man of twenty-two who seems so much older than his age, a wealthy man from a powerful family who must have plenty of female admirers. Yet his voice held vulnerability and uncertainty. His fucking was rough and clumsy, almost violent.

A realization stabs into my brain.

Oh my God.

He wasn't battling to control himself.

He's inexperienced.

"Was I—Was this your first time?" I ask, dumbfounded. "I thought…" Wait. The way he looked at me in the bathroom… "You've never seen a naked woman before?"

His smile isn't insecure or embarrassed. It's proud. "You're my first."

"Why?" I whisper.

"You're mine, and I'm yours."

My head swims with his words, my brain struggling to process their meaning. I want to ask for an explanation, but he lowers his head and presses his lips on mine. The kiss isn't like our first. It's not a dry peck that's over too soon. It's wet and dirty and untamed, filled with longing and passion, and it stirs something in my body again, something Angelo satiated not minutes ago.

I don't know why I don't tell him to stop. Maybe it's his confession that softened me. That he waited. For me. Maybe it's being drunk on champagne and lust, but when he strokes his tongue over mine, I forget about everything else. No, that's not true. I don't forget. I simply choose not to remember. Just for a short while, I ignore all the reasons why this is wrong.

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I thread my fingers through his hair and pull him closer. I kiss him with all the anger I've locked inside me, punishing him for all the suffering he's caused. My teeth do damage, but he doesn't fight me. He gives me an outlet for my vengeance, letting me use him savagely and primitively.

Arousal sparks in my belly when he parts my legs with his knee and settles between my thighs. His cock nudges my entrance, hot and hard and slick. My inner muscles give when he parts me with the broad head, my body already welcoming the possession.

This time, he enters me slowly. Painlessly. The stretch still burns, but the pleasure that wakes my nerve endings is instantaneous. The anticipation that runs through me contracts my nipples. The sounds falling from my lips should make me cringe, but I'm too lost in the moment to care, too lost in the haze of pleasure, too lost in the endless darkness of his eyes.

He's gentler than earlier, rocking inside me with a lazy pace. He lifts my leg and bends my knee to find a different angle. The penetration is deeper.

I cry out.

"Like this?" he asks, concentration etched on his face.

He's trying to make it feel good for me. Moaning, I nod. I quickly find his rhythm, moving my hips with his.

"Fuck, bella." A trickle of sweat runs down his temple. "Slow down a little, cara."

I brush a hand over the hard muscles of his chest, closing my fingers over the black ink. Taunting, again. "Are you close?"

"Too close." He bites out the words. "What you do to me."

"Then do it." I arch my body, rubbing my clit against his groin. "Make us come."

Uttering a growl, he lets go of my leg and slips a hand between our bodies. He takes care not to crush me, supporting his weight on the arm he puts next to my face. I turn my head, my gaze drawn by the flex of his powerful muscles. His bicep bunches as he picks up his pace while rubbing circles over my clit. I can't look away from the perfect cut of those muscles, but then the sparks between my legs vanish and he's digging his fingers into my cheeks, forcing me to face him.

Our gazes lock. The truth is naked and messy. How can something so beautiful be so ugly? The smell of sex and us clings to his fingers. He's not asking me to tell him. He's finding the answer for himself in my eyes. Fisting his hair in one hand, I slide the other between our bodies and finish what he started. A little pressure on my clit is enough. When my body bows and my vision blurs, he crashes his mouth on mine and lets go.

Our thrusts are like the tangling of our tongues, savage and desperate. We're each chasing our release so that we can go over together. Even in this, in our shared physical goal, we're at war, punishing each other with pleasure.

He comes while kissing me as aftershocks convulse my body. In the aftermath, he holds me. The storm has wreaked its havoc, and it leaves me like a shipwreck washed up on the shore. The headache that built in my temples flares.

I push on his chest, trying to get up. "My head. I need a pill."

"Stay." He kisses my forehead and detangles himself from me, making me feel cold when he pulls out.

I should tell him where to find my toilet bag, which I left in the bathroom cupboard, but sleep is already stealing over me. I'm dozing off by the time he returns with a glass of water and paracetamol.

"Here." He cups my nape and helps me to sit up before bringing the glass to my lips. "Drink everything. You'll feel better for it in the morning."

I let him slip the pill onto my tongue and drink the water like he instructed. When the glass is empty, he puts it aside.

"One more thing and then I promise to let you sleep." He sits down on the edge of the bed, brushing his fingers over my nape. "Where is my ring?"

For a moment, I consider not telling him just to be spiteful, but I'm so tired. I'm tired of looking over my shoulder. Of feeling guilty for what I did to my dad. Of all the lies. "I flushed it down the toilet."

He raises a brow. "When?"

"Tonight. But if you're thinking about going hunting for it, you'll probably need a plumber to dig up the pipes."

"Don't worry," he says, picking something up from the nightstand and holding it in front of my face. "I have another one."

The insignia on the gold ring comes into focus, the image of the wolves facing off that's burned into my mind.

"How many of these damn things do you have?" I ask.

His tone is laced with humor. "Apparently, not enough."

Why doesn't he sound angry? And why, when he says, "Sweet dreams, cara. Now you can sleep," is there a note of regret in his tone?

He increases the pressure of his fingers on my neck. He's squeezing those sensitive points like he did when he held me in a similar grip on the day I took off his ring in the hotel room in George. That was the day he threatened to put me out. Now, he's pinching harder. I fight to free myself as his hold becomes painful, almost unbearably so, but I'm no match for his strength.

The last thing I hear before the light fades is, "I'm sorry, cara lamia bella."