His Contracted Temptation; Velvet Lies

VALENTINO & FLORA

VALERIA

After three rounds of s*x, your body tends to remind you that you're only human. I don't think I've ever felt this stretched–like my body still remembers Dante. I turn to my side slow and careful not to wake him up.

Dark waves fan his pillow, chest rising and falling with each breath. A small smile tugs my lips as last night comes rushing back... Dante is like a f*****g energy drink, and his libido is, oh my God. It's a wonder he still had the strength to clean us up– I was f*****g exhausted.

My back and hips ache when I stand. The swollen ache between my legs makes me hobble; I silently promise myself to tone it down next time.

After freshening up, I head to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. I could get revenge, but since I'm in such a good mood, I stick to a traditional meal of butter-toasted corn cakes with cheese and scrambled eggs with tomatoes and scallions. Perfect for two people with a huge appetite.

Coffee comes next, Cafe Colombiano–strong black coffee, brewed slow. The soft pad of footsteps sounds behind me, and my stomach flips excitedly. Dante.

"Arise and shine," I sing.

"Since when did you wake up before me?" Dante yawns behind me, slipping into a stool. His hair's a tousled mess, heavy-lidded gaze following me in that way that makes me forget I'm one foreplay away from becoming crippled.

I clear my throat. "Let's see..." I tap my chin in fake thought. Then I snap my fingers. "Oh, right. Since I discovered I'm capable of beating you out of bed."

One eyebrow tips up, the faintest smirk ghosting across his mouth. "Well done, Dora."

"You're welcome, Swiper." I set the tray down. He arches a brow, suspicious.

"If this is payback for yesterday, I'm not eating it," he says, shifting the tray to me.

"Actually, it's a thank you for all the orgasms I experienced," I smile back sweetly, pushing the tray back to him. "Not everyone's as devious as you."

Dante stares at me for a while before his gaze returns to his food, then me, green eyes regarding me with silent amusement and suspicion.

"Your coffee's getting cold, Sherlock Holmes," I warn, then blow my coffee.

Dante snorts, dragging back hair away from his face. "So we're now calling each other fictional characters. Cute."

"I know, right." When I glance at him, he still hasn't touched his food, just sips his coffee as though I wouldn't mess with it even if I wanted to get back at him.

Dante sets his mug down, eyes locking on mine. "Last night… the s*x was great," he says, voice low, steady. "But don’t get the wrong idea — it’s just chemistry."

I nod, pretending not to notice the way his words make my stomach twist. Just s*x, I tell myself. Fine. That’s fine.

"Trust me, the last thing I'll do is try to place a label on what's happening. It's a contract. It's business." I add with a finality that feels both empty and weak to me.

He nods, letting out a deep sigh. "Just thought I should set the record straight to avoid any complications in the future."

"I wouldn't want to lose the only job where I can sleep in the middle of the day and still get paid, Mr. Romano." I grin around a bite of scrambled eggs.

"I'm assuming it means it's safe to eat this," Dante murmurs. I don’t know if it’s him or the novelty of an Italian trying Colombian food, but I watch every bite. He nods in that slow appreciative way judges do in cooking shows, and my grin spreads before I realize what's going on.

Dante's gaze narrows his eyes, a flicker of surprise flashing across his face. "Okay, you didn't try to poison me," he takes another bite, "and this tastes really good."

"It’s Colombian — arepas con queso and huevos pericos. Thought I’d introduce your stomach to Latina food." I raise my fork. "Then poison you when you least expect it."

Dante scoffs. "You're welcome to try."

Breakfast goes by fast — teasing, a little attempted foreplay — then Dante leaves for work, and I’m alone in this empty house. It takes about a few minutes for boredom and loneliness to hit me when I hear a soft knock on my room.

My blush palette snaps shut, the door opens, and Helen steps in.

"Good morning, Helen," I say quickly. Helen's smile is bleak, feet shuffling as she lowers her gaze.

"Good morning, Valeria. You have a guest."

"A guest?" I grip the edge of the vanity table hard, till my hands hurt. Helen nods quickly, her eyes darting between the open door and me before she shuts it.

If anyone’s coming in an emergency, it’d be Diego — but he was here last night, so it can’t be him. What if... could– Don Mojito have sent someone– no, that's just silly, the security here is tight, you don't just pop in here... but doesn't Helen look flustered. Holy s**t, what if he –

"It's Mrs. Romano, Dante's mother," Helen says, snapping my attention.

"Sweet Jesus," I place a hand to my chest and let out a deep breath. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, Helen."

"I'm sorry, but that woman is, uh," Helen shakes her head, "very forceful." Then clearing her throat, she says, "she's come looking for Dante, but since he's out, she asked for you instead."

"I'll be down soon," I say to Helen.

"She's in the drawing room." The door shuts, and I frown.

People like Florence Romano don’t just show up unannounced unless it’s serious. And I can bet my ass she knows Dante’s not here. Whatever her agenda is, it’s not pretty. Hello—she doesn’t even bother to call me by my real name.

I finish the last part of my makeup and head to the drawing room. Her fragrance welcomes me before she does; floral, soft yet bold and audacious like its owner.

"Valentino," Florence grins, turning away from a portrait to face me.

"Flora!" I grin back, "How did you know I wore Valentino Flora? God, that scent always gives me away." I sink into the armchair, letting out a content sigh. Florence’s brow quirks, her grin fading before she looks away.

"You know, I was just looking at some portraits before you came in. My son has great taste—something he clearly gets from his parents," Florence says airily, strolling past the frames before turning her gaze back to me.

"You're smart enough to know where this conversation is headed," she adds, her voice cold, calculating, eyes sizing me up like I’m on an auction block.

"Well, you’re not exactly addressing me as a person," I shrug, tilting my head, "so be my guest—spill it."

"Huh," Florence chuckles dryly, slipping into her chair. "I'd love to make this as brief as possible. The offer's simple. I pay you to leave my son and you do so, or we do it the hard way. I don't want to believe you're not smart."

"You think money can–" my protest dies off as Florence cuts in.

“Spare me the cliché,” she scoffs, fishing a check from her coat. “Four hundred thousand dollars. We can go higher. Everyone has a price. Name yours, Valeria.”

"This isn't an auction event, and I'm not bidding my relationship," I say calmly, even though every nerve in my body is seething with anger and irritation.

"Seven hundred." Florence says, ignoring me as she rips out another cheque, scribbling lazily with the kind of confidence you get from doing something very often, which makes me wonder: how many times has she done this?

"No amount of money would change what we already have," I say truthfully. I want to tell her in my reality you don't just go about breaking contracts, that not everything is solved with money because, let's face it, no amount of money can guarantee me enough protection from that bastard after my life. Me being with Dante is my only safety, but I don't say any of that.

"And I'm supposed to believe you love him? That both of you dated before and the next time you met, Cupid shot his arrows into your butts?" Florence looks both amused and impatient, her lips pursed into a thin line, dark green eyes glaring hard at me.

"I've encountered a fair share of your kind with both older and younger Romano, and one thing about me, Valeria, is," her voice lowers, deadly calm and poisonous, "I always get what I want."

"Maybe I'm different," I flash her my most charming smile, and she rolls her eyes.

“Of course you’re different — but you won’t survive me, sweetheart.” She drops a business card on the table, standing up. “That’s for when reality hits. Goodbye, Val.” The door shuts behind her, leaving perfume and a black card.

Florence might be right, but what she doesn't realize is that I'm different. Very f*****g different. I rip the card and toss it in the fireplace. The card blackens, a curl of smoke dancing in the air.

Oops.