Chapter 41

41

Olivia

"Better believe it." I squeeze my thighs together. If I look down at my sweater, I'm sure I'll find my nipples outlined through the fabric. I am not going to sleep with him again. No. It's just, when I'm sitting opposite him, in this gorgeous place, with his gaze fixed on me, and those seductive words coming out of his mouth, I'm not sure about anything anymore.

Maybe I should say fuck it and fuck him. And then what? Consummate the marriage and walk into his trap? That's exactly what he wants. It's why he didn't push me about the sleeping together part before we got married. It's why he came to London with me. He knew, once we were together, under the same roof—under his roof—he'd find a way to seduce me. And he doesn't have to do much, except sit there and smolder at me. All he has to do is narrow his gaze on me, and I'm a goner. And once he starts talking dirty, I have no chance. But I am going to fight this attraction to him. I am not going to give in to him.

I drain my glass of water and place it on the table with a thump.

"Thirsty?" His smile grows wider.

Asshole knows exactly the kind of effect he has on me.

"Aren't you?" I ask sweetly.

As if I've summoned him, the waiter arrives with our drink orders. Thank God. I grab the cocktail, thankful I have something to hold on to.

Massimo raises his tumbler of whiskey. "Salute," he drawls. "To our future together."

"May the best person win." I clink our glasses together.

"I always win," he replies with complete authority.

"You've never competed with me before," I scoff.

"You're here, aren't you?" he reminds me.

I toss my hair over my shoulder. "I won't let anything stand between me and my dreams."

"I promised you I wouldn't get in the way of your dreams, but I won't let anything stand between the two of us."

I firm my chin, then take a hefty swallow of my cocktail. And cough. The alcohol content in my drink is so high, I can taste the acidic bite of the liquor on my palate. The taste of elderflower chases it down. I take another sip and roll the liquid across my tongue. The sting of ginger, the softness of thyme, the distinctive peppery taste of rosemary, and beneath it all, the mellow purpleness of vanilla coats my tongue. He must see the expression on my face, for he tilts his head. "Good?"

I swallow, then nod. "It's the best cocktail I've had in, like, ever."

"Good." He smirks.

The waiter arrives again. Massimo orders a roasted cod fillet with sea vegetables for himself, and a wild mushroom risotto with shaved black truffle for me.

When the waiter leaves, I scowl at him. "I can order for myself."

"And I wanted to order for you."

"That's really chauvinistic of you," I say through gritted teeth.

"Maybe I want to take care of my wife."

"And no doubt, keep her at home, barefoot and pregnant," I mutter.

His gaze heats. "I'd love to see you barefoot and pregnant. However, I also know how much it means to you to pursue your career, and I've already told you, repeatedly, I'll never stop you from owning your dream."

My cheeks flush. I play with my cutlery and arrange them parallel to each other on either side of the plate. Our every conversation ends with him, somehow, gaining the upper hand. He's always come across as fair in our discussions, except for how he maneuvered me into marrying him, that is. But he saved me from my brother's plans for me, so I can't even stay angry at him for that, I suppose. It's my damn ambition that's getting in the way. I've always taken pride in being a feminist and in being independent. How can I reconcile that part of me with the lust that fills me every time I think of him owning me, caressing me, fucking me in every filthy way he's promised? How can I allow that to happen and not become dependent on him?

"Via, look at me."

I refuse to raise my gaze.

"Via."

There's a note of warning in his voice that sends a thrill through my veins. Somehow, I like it when he gets upset. I like seeing this commanding, unyielding part of him—that alphahole core of him which he seems to have cloaked under this understanding man whenever he's near me. I know myself well enough to realize that I'm not one of those women who wants to be treated like a lady in bed. Which is why the night we had together was so hot. He was rough and demanding. He pushed me to open myself up, but he was also generous in how he took care of my needs. He was the epitome of what I want from a lover. And now, he's my husband. Mine.

I reach for my cocktail and drain the rest of it. The alcohol hits my stomach, setting off a pleasant buzz under my skin. I slide my leg under the table until I reach the inside of his ankle, then drag my foot up the inside of his pants.

He stiffens, and his eyes flash. He holds my gaze as I rub my foot up and down his calf, as much as I can reach it, that is.

One side of his lips twists. "You're playing a dangerous game, Via." His tone drops an octave, and every cell in my body seems to pant. My ovaries seem to vibrate in anticipation. I reach over for his glass and slide it over to my side of the table, then turn it around until I fix my lips to the very space he sipped from. I tilt the glass back and take a sip. When I raise my gaze to his, his shoulders are tense. His jaw is hard. A pulse thuds at his temple. I didn't realize how much power I hold over him, until right now.

"Massimo, I?—"

"Sovrano," a man's voice intrudes.

Both of us start. I lower my leg to the ground, then both of us turn our heads to watch the man who approaches us. He's tall—not as tall as Massimo, but he makes up for it with his powerful physique. His dark hair is cut short at the sides, slightly longer on top. His dark eyes sweep over me with a look that is part assessing and part slimy. A shiver runs down my spine.

Massimo rises to his feet and steps in front of me, effectively cutting me off from the stranger's line of sight. "Who are you?"

"The man to whom she was first pledged."