Chapter 12

TWELVE

Angelo

The sight that greets me isn't what I expected. Sabella on her knees. Naked. Thighs spread. Head bent. Her long dark hair falls like a curtain around her face.

For a moment, I'm frozen, mesmerized not only by the stunning depravity of the image but also by the obedience that's so unlike her.

She makes a striking picture. Raw. Dirty. And somehow sacred.

Aware of the cold I'm letting in on her, I'm quick to shut the door. It gives me a moment to muster control and find my bearings. The house looks different. It smells different. But I only register those changes vaguely in the back of my mind. My attention is fixed on my wife, a woman kneeling for me, and there's something so wrong with the portrait that I can't prevent myself from crossing the floor and stopping in front of her. I have no idea what I'm going to do until I offer her a hand.

My wife shouldn't be on her knees. She's a Russo now. I thought the punishment would please me. Instead, it angers me for reasons I can't explain. Seeing her so degraded makes me clench my fist at my side. It takes every morsel of self-control I possess not to drag her up by her arm.

"Sabella," I say in a soft but firm tone when she doesn't react.

She lifts her head. Her gaze cuts to the hand I hold in front of her face.

"Get up."

I gave her the command several times since I married her, but this may be the only time I said it with kindness.

She frowns. She's confused. Yeah. So am I. I ordered her to present herself like an object or a fuck toy when I walk through the door. I'm contradicting myself. I should let her stay there while I remove my coat and tie and make myself comfortable. But I don't. I grip her fingers and pull her to her feet.

I don't give her an explanation because I don't have one. I don't let go of her hand because I don't want to. She shivers a little, her fingers trembling in mine. She must be cold. The discarded clothes on the ottoman and the glass of wine on the table catch my gaze.

Opening my arms, I pull her in for a hug. She's stiff in my embrace, probably even more confused by the gesture. Her body is warm against mine. The skin of her back is soft under my palms. Another quiver runs through her.

"Cold?" I ask, planting a kiss on the top of her head.

She clears her throat. "Your hands are freezing."

I rub her back to warm both her and my hands. "I should've worn gloves."

She pulls back a little. "What do you want me to do?"

The question catches me off guard. "Whatever I tell you to."

She shrugs. "All right."

"All right?" Just like that? No resistance? No fight?

"I'm not sure what you want from me."

I consider that. What do I want from her? I want to bend her over the table and fuck her breathless. I want to spread her out on the floor and slam into her until I break my cock in two. I want to kiss her until the sun comes up and fall asleep with her in my arms. I must be turning into the weakling my uncles fear I'm becoming.

Instead, I let her go. "You can pour me a glass of wine."

"Red or white?"

Taking off my coat, I study the stunning shape of her body, the pertness of her tits, and the nipples that sit hard on top of them. My mark between her legs. "I'll have whatever you're having."

I slip off the coat as she turns. Fuck. I've never seen a prettier ass. So firm and perfectly rounded. The marks I put on those globes have long since faded.

"Wait," I say for no other reason than to prolong the pleasure of the sight.

She looks at me from over her shoulder, waiting like I commanded.

I have no idea what to say. I can't express what I want in words. My voice is gruff as I make up an excuse for delaying her. "Make that a Scotch."

"I'm not sure there is any."

"Fabien would've stocked up with some."

"Oh." The corner of her mouth lifts in a wry smile. "Of course he would've."

My instruction is curt. "Check the liquor cupboard."

I like her softness and agreeable nature when she's obedient despite the fact that it's just a show she puts on for me. As much as I love her sassy mouth, I'm not in the mood to spoil the moment, not when I only had a small taste of how it feels to be with a woman who doesn't resist or openly detest my presence.

Removing my tie, I ogle her as she walks to the kitchen. I'm undoing the top two buttons of my shirt when she returns with a tumbler of Scotch.

"Thank you," I say when she hands it to me, bending down to press my lips on her cheek.

She gives a start and blinks up at me.

Like my earlier behavior, I don't explain this gesture either. Just as disobedience needs to be punished, obedience deserves to be rewarded.

I sit down on the sofa and leave my glass on the side table. She stands in front of me, her nakedness leaving her vulnerable and exposed. Her body is accessible, presented for my taking. There's a million and one ways in which I want to grope her, and none of them is decent. Yet I don't cup her breasts or bury my fingers between her legs. What holds me back isn't my steely control. It's how she stands there so quietly, waiting for my next command even though she doesn't know what to expect.

I could order her to kneel and swallow my cock. I could instruct her to bend over and take me in her ass again. For all she knows, I could command her to lick my shoes clean. It's a simple transaction, a price she agreed to pay. Her acceptance of whatever fate I choose to dole out should please me too, but I don't find it half as enticing as her free will. The first two times we fucked were violent, but she was a spontaneous participant as sure as I was willing. My cock hardens at the thought of her sucking me off and liking it. I want more of that, more of her free will.

Taking her hand, I draw her between my legs. With a firm tug, I pull her onto my lap. Her ass on my groin feels good. It's a perfect fit. My arms around her feel natural. I like this husbandly duty—keeping her warm.

Brushing a strand of hair from her face, I search her beautiful dark eyes for the truth. "What happened while I was gone?"

"Nothing," she says, tensing in my arms.

She's misinterpreting my question. My aim isn't to shatter the peace with threats of punishment for her wrongdoings. I know nothing happened. I know she was here, locked up in the house. I have the hourly reports from my cousins. I want to know what happened that made her so docile. It's what I wanted, isn't it? But now that I have it, I find I don't like it. I don't like it when it's not real. I prefer her just as herself—my feisty, proud girl. My unwilling wife.

And just like that, the bitter taste of old is back in my mouth.

Embarrassed almost, she says, "I'm learning to cook." She blushes a little. "Well, trying to learn." She shrugs. "That's all."

Circling an arm around her waist, I place my palm over the seal I branded into her skin. "Is it working?"

She makes a face. "Not quite."

I don't know why I find that so endearing. "I'll hire a full-time chef."

"No," she says quickly. "I want to try. Heidi gave me some recipes."

I caress my mark with a thumb, tracing the outline of the circle that sits just above her pussy, remembering the night I put it on her. "What's on the menu tonight?"

"Can't you smell?" she asks with a ghost of a smile.

Chicken, yes. Rosemary and thyme. Yet those aren't the fragrances I'm focused on. It's the smell of the cherry blossom shampoo in her hair and the feminine perfume of her skin. It's the memory of us, the smell of dirty, raw, insatiable sex hanging in the room.

Supporting her shoulders with one arm, I trail my hand up over her stomach. Her belly flutters under my palm. I study her face as I trace her cleavage with a fingertip before cupping her breast. For the briefest moment, her eyelashes flutter. The dilation of her pupils doesn't lie. Neither does the way her nipple hardens beneath my touch. My hands turn her on.

Her lips part slightly as I weigh her breast before stroking the curve gently. My gaze is drawn to the beauty spot at the corner of her mouth. A memory of her pressing her lips on the rim of a mug rushes into my head. I want more of that too. I want her to tease me, to drive me out of my mind with need for her, because she's always been an expert at that without even trying.

When I stop caressing her to pick up my glass, a barely audible sigh falls from her lips.

"Ever tried Scotch?" I ask.

"Yes, but I'm not a fan of hard liquor."

"It's an acquired taste." Taking a small swallow, I savor the notes on my tongue. "Malty and buttery with a spicy finish."

I take another sip and lower my head. Her eyes widen when she realizes my intention, but she doesn't protest when I press my mouth on hers. She parts her lips and lets me feed her, accepting the alcohol and the kiss.

The taste of Scotch infuses our breaths. It lingers on her tongue as I suck it into my mouth, relishing her flavor as I prolong the kiss.

When I come up for air, she's panting, her lips red and swollen already.

"Do you like it?" I ask, not sure if I mean the drink or the kiss.

The look in her eyes is both coy and uncertain as she peers at me through her dark, long lashes. "As you said, it's an acquired taste."

I raise a brow. "One you can get used to?"

"There's only one way to find out."

Not a yes or a no. But permission to go ahead. And I grab it with both hands.

She watches me as I tilt back the glass and fill my mouth with another sip of six-thousand-euro Scotch. She already parts her lips as I swoop down, but this time, her mouth isn't my destination. I dip my arm, laying her over my lap with her head on the armrest before locking my mouth around the tip of her breast. She gasps when the liquid bathes her nipple. The bud contracts, growing hard in my mouth. Both her feel and taste are addictive. I swallow, sucking her curve deep into my mouth. She moans and arches her back, encouraging me to take more.

I lick her nipple, enjoying the coldness of her flesh on the warmth of my tongue. I'm achingly aware that her pussy is only a hand's reach away. The urge to slip my fingers between her legs is huge, the pull almost irresistible, but I don't want her wet tightness on my fingertips. I want it on my tongue.

She studies me with a question in her eyes as I leave the glass on the side table, push a cushion under her head, and shift out from underneath her.

Standing, I loom over her naked body. "Bend your knees."

She holds my gaze as she complies.

"Good girl. Now spread them wide."

She does what I tell her to do without posing questions. This round, her obedience turns my cock harder than a steel rod because it's not just for show. She's wet. Her arousal glistens on the pink lips of her pussy. She wants this, whatever she thinks I'm going to give her.

Taking a long drink, I plant a knee on the sofa and go down between her legs. Her hips lift off the seat when I tease her clit with the liquid in my mouth. She gasps when I part her with my tongue. But when I drown her pussy in Scotch, she fists her fingers in my hair and offers herself like the most exquisite vessel for my drinking. And I do. I drink straight from her delicious cunt, sucking her dry, and when she's writhing in the gentle clamp of my teeth around her clit, I eat her out.

She comes with a cry, her nails doing damage to my scalp. Beyond stopping, I can only carry on, wrenching aftershocks from her body until her shoulders collapse on the sofa and her arms fall at her sides. Until she begs me, "Stop, please. No more."

I oblige, sitting back and spreading her pussy lips with my thumbs to look at my work. Her clit is red and swollen from my teeth and my lips. Arousal slickens her slit. The smooth skin of her inner thighs is scraped from my stubble. Her head is thrown back, her hair a wild mess around her face. Breathing hard, she watches me watching her. She's a picture of perfect devastation, drunk on pleasure and wearing the perfume of Scotch.

There's one sip left in the glass and nothing of my control. I take her hand and pull her into a sitting position. Cupping her head, I pick up the glass and bring it to her mouth. I turn the rim so that her lips are pressed on the same spot from where I drank. She drinks. Swallows. Her throat moves delicately with the action.

I have no idea how long I had my head buried between her legs. How long have I been here? An hour? Two?

She's still watching me, measuring me, licking a drop of Scotch from her bottom lip while she stares up at my face. Urgency fuels my steps as I walk to the kitchen and switch off the oven. When I return to the lounge, she's still sitting where I left her.

I go over and lift her into my arms. Nothing is said as I carry her upstairs. Words are redundant. Language is insufficient. Our bodies are enough. Lust is all we need to communicate. It's perfectly clear when I push the main bedroom door open with a shoulder.

She clings to me as I carry her to the bed, and the strange act touches something inside me. It makes me want to hold her and tell her she's mine to protect, that I won't let her go.

I lay her down on the side of the bed, releasing her only long enough to take off my clothes. Naked, I crawl over her, covering every inch of her skin with mine. Her warmth and smell melt into my senses, warming me in places that have always been cold. Something clicks in place when I intertwine our fingers and stretch her arms above her head. She opens her legs for me, letting me in. My cock knows the way. It slips home easily, finding her wet and hot and tight and too much.

Fuck.

I grit my teeth, biting back the pleasure that climbs too fast.

When I rock my hips, she follows my lead. I close my fingers, squeezing hers. Squeeze my eyes shut. Only for a moment. Because I want to look at her. I lower my head and taste her lips. Hungry for the depth of her mouth, I sweep my tongue over hers. The kiss is unhurried and tender, our lovemaking slow.

And fuck.

Because I'm going to shoot my load.

I kiss a path down her neck, finding her breast, savoring her nipple. My actions are languid even if the urgency in my body is a breakable thing, a thing about to explode.

Because I don't want it to end.

Not before I take care of her pleasure.

Even as the intention enters my mind, my body gives out. I empty myself in her pussy, filling her up with my seed. Letting myself go and finding my pleasure inside her is so powerful that all thoughts except for one weakening need disappear.

Untangling our hands, I spear my fingers through her silky hair, cupping her face between my palms as I pump with a dry cock and grunt out, "Say it. Say my name."

Laying her hand on my nape, she pulls me in for a kiss. "Stop talking, Mr. Russo, and make me come."

That something that fitted so perfectly falls out of place. There's something wrong with those words, with the formal way in which she addresses me, but I'm too caught up in the moment to examine the notion. I'm too scared to look too closely and find something that will shatter the peace. So I kiss her. Deeply. Deeper than I care to look. And I slip a hand between our bodies and use my cum to lubricate her clit before I rub that little button the way she likes, the way that makes her lock her thighs around my hips before her inner muscles clench on my cock.

I kiss her through her orgasm, lapping up her pleasure, owning her breaths and her firsts. Owning everything, but not her heart.

It's a fucking bitter pill to swallow, and it tastes all the more acrid because of the sweetness of this moment.

It's unfair to expect something of her that can never be. It's downright dumb to want something I can never have. It's wrong to think of love when I'm still kissing her. Because it fucks with my head.

Yet I don't stop. I don't tear my lips from hers, and I don't stop thinking. That nasty little splinter has lodged into my brain, and it's there to stay. To torment me. To fester like a thorn under the skin with a throbbing discomfort that won't be ignored.

"Air," she says, pushing on my shoulders.

I get off her, just enough to let her breathe. I must be crushing her beneath my weight. I got carried away.

She winces when I pull out.

"Does it hurt?" I ask, framing her cheek in my palm and drinking in her beautiful features.

"No." She smiles. "It just burns a little."

I kiss her forehead. "Stay, cara."

She turns her face and follows my progress to the bathroom with her gaze. Her quiet acceptance both pleases and worries me. There's something off about it. I can't accuse her of being disobedient or unaccommodating. I only know it's not right.

After wetting a washcloth with warm water, I return to the bed and wipe away the cum between her legs.

"Does that burn less?" I ask when I'm done.

"Not really." She bites her lip. "But it's not so bad."

"Come on." I offer her a hand. "I'll clean you in the shower."

She lets me pull her to her feet. Interlinking our fingers, I lead her to the bathroom. I only let her go to open the tap and set towels out on the bench. I like this marital duty too—taking care of her needs.

She says nothing while I wash her hair and our bodies. She doesn't comment when I massage her scalp. Neither does she complain when I clean a little too thoroughly between her legs. She only speaks when I make quick work of rinsing myself.

"The tattoos." She traces the head of the wolf with a finger, sending a ripple through my skin. "Why did you get them?"

I shrug. "It seemed fitting."

She drags her hand lower. "Eternalizing your family emblem on your body?"

"It's more than an emblem. Everyone in Corsica knows what it stands for."

"Power?"

"I suppose."

"And resilience?"

"That too," I say, catching her hand before she reaches my cock. If she touches me now, I'm going to fuck her again, and she's still raw from earlier.

"Am I intruding?" she asks with a coy smile that doesn't mask her hurt.

I kiss her lips. "I'm not rejecting you, cara. I just don't want to hurt you more."

"I wasn't making advances," she says, flushing a little.

Sure. I smile. I like her like this. Greedy. Like how she was in the cave when she took everything she needed from me. Everything I owed her that day. The thought of the dark times that followed when she was in an induced coma in the hospital sobers me.

When we're both wrapped in towels, I leave her to dry her hair while I go to the dressing room. As instructed, Fabien stocked the closet with a few new outfits in my size. I select warm fleece pajamas for Sabella and a T-shirt and sweatpants for myself.

Once we're dressed, we go to the kitchen for dinner like a normal married couple. The only thing wrong with the picture is that the table is set for one.

"Sit," I say, pulling the chair out for her.

She lowers herself into the seat with an air of uncertainty, as if she doesn't know what to expect from me. There are many things wrong between us, things that can never be put right, but she tried tonight, and it's only fair that I try too. How little effort it takes to be kind surprises me. Even more surprising is how much I'm enjoying behaving in this normal way with her. For once, I don't have to deflect her jabs or animosity. When she doesn't resist me so hard, I don't have to treat her like the enemy she is.

My wife studies me from over the candle that's burned down to half its size as I get two glasses from the cupboard and fill them with wine from the open bottle that stands on the counter.

I sit down opposite her, studying her as intently as she's studying me, waiting for her to speak, to ask the question that burns in her eyes, because I'm curious about what that question is. She rubs her palms over her thighs, drawing my attention to the nervous action.

"Are you staying for dinner?" she finally asks.

The question isn't posed as an invitation but rather as a need to clarify a fact.

"Would you like me to?"

She cocks a shoulder. "It's your house. You're free to do as you please."

It's true. Then why does the statement disappoint me? We keep on balancing on this thin edge, walking a tightrope between peace and war. I'm not ready for the ceasefire to end.

Opting for humor, I ask, "Is it poisoned?"

The corner of her mouth lifts, but she's quick to wipe any traces of amusement away. "You'll have to wait and see."

In return, I offer her a full-blown smile. "I guess then I'll see."

She gets up and collects a plate and eating utensils from the cupboard that she carries back to the table. I drink in her graceful movements as she sets everything in front of me. It feels perfectly ordinary but also hugely eventful, like some kind of milestone. My first dinner cooked by my wife. Sure, she didn't cook the meal for me. She had no way of knowing I'd be here. But I'll take it anyway. I'll own the gesture and make it mine, pretending if only for the sake of the odd warmth that spreads through my chest at the thought.

On her way to the oven, she shoots me another insecure look. "It should be cooked. I hope. The chicken has been in here for more than an hour."

I can't help another smile from stretching my lips. "I should think so."

Enjoying the homely scene playing out too much, I don't offer my assistance when she fits a pair of oven mittens. I'm too greedy for the normality of watching her serve dinner to break the trance by getting out of my seat.

She takes a casserole from the oven and places it on a cork plate on the table. A baking tray is next. Her nervousness is palpable as she sits down again. Her anxiety over a simple meal is touching. I find it adorable. I'm not arrogant enough to believe she wants to impress me. Her tenseness has more to do with embarrassment at failing this test, not that cooking should be a test.

"What do you think?" she asks, working her luscious bottom lip between her teeth.

"It looks delicious."

"All right," she says, sounding doubtful as she picks up a serving spoon and offers it to me.

I motion at my plate, for an inexplicable reason wanting her to do this for me. "Go ahead."

That warm feeling in my chest intensifies when she loads a generous helping of grilled aubergine and chicken on my plate. It's not the way my mother took care of me. This is different.

When she's dished up for herself, I raise my glass. "To your first dinner. I'm honored."

"Don't be so quick to toast the food. It may be inedible."

"It's no big deal." My statement is aimed at setting her at ease. "I can always make us an omelet."

"Is that the extent of your cooking experience?" she teases as she picks up her glass.

"More or less. Like you, I always had people who cooked for me." I cut into the chicken. "I never needed to learn."

Her chest expands and stills with the breath she holds as I bring a bite to my mouth. I chew slowly, taking my time to savor the meat. The chicken is crispy on the outside and tender inside.

"Perfect," I say when I've swallowed.

She blows out a sigh. "Really?"

I grin. "Best chicken I've had."

A pretty flush grows over her cheeks. "There's no need to patronize me."

"I'm serious." I spear a piece of aubergine onto my fork. "It's delicious."

"Thank you," she says, looking vulnerable and grateful and way too beautiful.

"But I meant it when I said I could hire a chef. You need a housekeeper too."

She stills with her fork halfway to her mouth. "A housekeeper?"

"I was going to bring up the subject later, but now is as good a time as any. I assume you'd like to do the interviews."

She puts down her fork. "I don't need a housekeeper."

"It's a big house." I sample the aubergine. Not bad. "There's a lot to clean."

Lowering her gaze, she picks up her fork again. "I like my privacy."

"There's enough space to accommodate a couple of live-in personnel without compromising your privacy. They can stay in the rooms at the other end of the hallway. The staff will be discreet. You won't even know they're here."

"I'll know," she says, pushing her food around on her plate. "Trust me."

I study her as I sip my wine. Her reluctance to have people in the house surprises me. I expected her to welcome the idea. "Why are you so set against having help?"

"It's not the help." She lifts her gaze back to mine. "I just want to be able to walk naked through the house if I like. Having strangers around is inhibiting."

Ah. I think I understand. "Is this about how you're supposed to greet me?"

She winces. It's obviously a sore point for her. "Not only."

"Because that's easy to work around. I can order them to retire to their rooms after a working day."

"That's severe. It's like telling someone they don't have the right to leave their room at night."

"If I'm paying the right price, they should be happy to oblige."

"That's what you believe, isn't it? That everyone has a price."

"Don't you?"

Her jaw hardens. Yes, even she has a price. In her case, it's her family.

"Don't make such a big deal out of this." I twirl the wine in my glass before downing what's left. "Staff don't have a reason for hanging around the living areas after hours."

A bit of the old spite creeps back into her voice. "Does that mean you're only gracing me with your presence at night?"

"I work during the day."

She takes a sip of wine and looks away. "Of course you do."

"Sabella."

At the command in my voice, she turns her face back to me.

"It's your choice," I say. "Let me know when you want help, and I'll arrange it."

A beat passes while she watches me with hesitance in her eyes. "Do you mean that?"

"Yes."

"Fine," she says, her effort at sounding assertive not masking her relief.

"Eat," I order, because she needs her strength. "Your food is getting cold."

She cuts the chicken into small pieces before taking a bite. I let her eat in peace for a while, making sure she finished at least half of the food on her plate before I speak again lest I spoil her appetite.

"We're attending a formal dinner party next weekend." I refill my glass. Hers is still full. "I'll have a dress delivered."

Her hands still for a second before she continues to halve a slice of aubergine. "What's the occasion?"

"Fundraiser." I leave my knife and fork diagonally on my empty plate and lean back in my chair. "A potential client will be present. Thomas Powell. He's the owner of one of the biggest British shipping companies."

"So, you're going for networking and not to support whatever the fundraiser is for."

"The event is raising funds for saving dolphins. I thought it would interest you."

She sits up straighter.

"Powell's company is putting measures in place to prevent them from getting tangled in fishing nets." Smiling, I bring my glass to my lips. "The two of you may have lots to talk about."

For the first time since I dragged her from her home country, excitement sparks in her eyes. "I'd like that."

"Good. When you meet him, you can give me your opinion of Mr. Powell."

"My opinion?"

"Yes," I drawl. "I'll appreciate your input."

She sips her wine. "Why?"

"He's a hard nut to crack. He's more like the people who move in your circles—well educated, cultured, and politically correct. Comes from old money. He looks down on self-made men like me."

"Hmm. Tell me more."

"He has a monopoly on the safest sea routes between Indonesia and Mozambique. I'm currently moving containers between Asia and South Africa, but they have to go via France. If I can get direct access to Mozambique, I can transport them from Maputo to Johannesburg via road. It's little over five hundred kilometers."

She tilts her head. "What's in it for you?"

"Lower transport and insurance costs, safer routes with less product losses due to theft or accidents, shorter delivery times, less import red tape, and guaranteed availability of the products to my clients on the stipulated dates. In short, it'll be cheaper with less hassles while enhancing my brand image and reliability."

Resting her chin on her hand, she scrutinizes me. "What kind of products are we talking about?"

"Silk and spices. Nothing illegal."

Her expression is doubtful. She drinks again before asking, "What's in it for him?"

"Money." Taking the bottle, I top up her wine. "Lots of money."

"From what you told me, it sounds as if money isn't his main motivation. He's got enough of that. He'll want other benefits."

"Such as?"

"Prestige. Power by association."

"What do you suggest?"

She crosses her arms, balancing her glass in one hand. "What are his interests?"

"Golf and yachting."

"Do you play?"

"Golf?" I shake my head. "I've never had the patience."

"Then that leaves you with yachting."

"Yachting," I parrot.

"You have a big boat, don't you?" she says, arching an eyebrow. "Big enough to impress him."

"Are you suggesting I invite him for a party on my yacht?"

"Where is he from?"

"He's from Welsh origin. He currently lives in London."

"Well, then you can invite him for a cruise along the beautiful shores of Corsica and demonstrate how cultured you are with a five-course, sit-down meal. You can compare sizes—in boats, of course—or whatever it is you men like to compare. Horsepower and engines and all that stuff that's meant to prove what macho guys you are."

"You reckon?" I ask with a grin. I have no idea why she's helping me, if it's the wine or the fact that her opinion matters to me. Whatever compels her to play along, I'm enjoying this exchange.

"Absolutely." She bats her eyelashes. "And you should let him have the biggest boat and the strongest engine, even if it isn't true."

"What?" I say with a growl. "Do you expect me to lie about the horsepower of my engine?"

"Yep." Her smile is a little too sweet. "It's going to hurt, but you'll survive."

"I know for a fact my yacht is worth three times the price of his."

"Then don't mention the price. If material gain isn't his biggest motivation and he's from an older school of upbringing, he may find the topic of money vulgar. He probably didn't buy the biggest and most expensive yacht because those aren't the criteria that count in his book. Maybe his yacht was designed by a prestigious engineer, or he preferred to go greener and use less fuel. Instead of pointing out how his yacht falls short compared to yours, praise his boat for its positive features. Focus on how it has more character than yours or how it's prettier than the Sea Hawk." Her smile stretches wider. "You get the point."

I can only stare at her for a moment. "Are you serious?"

"Hmm-hmm." She uncrosses her arms and rests her chin on her palm. "It's like letting a potential client win a game of golf. Try to find some common ground. If you show him a good time on top of that, he'll be more likely to consider your offer." She adds with a wink, "Oh, and a few bottles of good Scotch can only help in creating an unforgettable bonding experience."

Downplaying my wealth or my property just so an old snob of a man can feel better about his inferior status goes against every grain of my being. It's not like me to pretend, but I find her over-simplistic and generalized take on the male psyche amusing. Her innocence is almost na?ve, a trait I find attractive because, unlike me, she's pure and uncomplicated. However, she does have a point.

"You have it all figured out, don't you?" I ask, my lips quirking.

"You asked." She shrugs. "You don't have to follow my advice."

"We'll see." I hold her gaze as I take another sip of my wine. "Maybe I should let you earn commission on the deal. That's to say if he accepts."

She pulls a mock-serious face. "That would be fair."

"If we really want to be fair, there should also be a punishment if I lose the deal because your tactics didn't work."

For the briefest of moments, her eyes flare with something akin to excitement. It's not only the dare. The idea of punishment turns her on. We're more alike than she cares to admit.

The playful ambience evaporates. Lust crackles in the air between us. A simple look, a single thought, and all I want to do is pull down her pajama bottoms and bend her over the table.

She must be picking up on my vibe. The red color of her cheeks, which could be attributed to a combination of the wine and the warmth of the kitchen, intensifies.

Her throat bobs as she swallows. Pushing to her feet, she says, "I better clear the table."

I let her escape, not chasing after her when she stacks the plates and takes them to the counter. I carry the rest of the empty dishes to the sink. She rinses, and I pack the dishwasher. We work in silence until the kitchen is clean. When there's nothing left to do, she blows out the candle and rests her ass against the edge of the table. She's waiting for me to say goodbye and leave.

That was the plan.

Instead, I take her hand and draw her against me. Lowering my head, I brush my lips over hers. "Tired?"

"A little," she says in a breathless voice.

I pull her behind me to the door. "Then come."

She hangs back. When I look over my shoulder, she's studying me with a frown.

"Come on, bella. It's late."

Relenting, she lets me lead her to the bedroom. We brush our teeth side by side in the bathroom like an old married couple. I go to the room and turn down the covers before getting into bed.

She hesitates for a second when she comes out of the bathroom.

"Come on, wife. I don't bite," I tease.

Her tone carries a tinge of bitterness. "Do I get to sleep in the bed?"

I pat the space next to me. "You more than earned it."

Her back goes stiff. I didn't mean for it to sound like that, like sex is a currency, but there's no denying that beautiful ugliness is our truth.

"Come," I say, trying to be gentler.

She crosses the floor gingerly and lies down beside me. The question she's not asking hangs in the air. She's wondering why I'm staying.

To be honest, I have no idea. I only know when I pull her close and wrap my arms around her that this is exactly what I want. I'll close my eyes, just for a while. I can always get up and leave in an hour.