His breath brushes my ear, hot and heavy, branding me.
“If you so much twitch this out of you,” Massimo growls low. “I’ll f**k you in the middle of the ballroom. In front of your family. In front of the f*****g president. Make them all watch how filthy you are under that pretty dress, bambina.”
My pulse jackknife.
No.
He wouldn’t.
He would.
The thoughts is like a drug. A sickness that blooms inside me.
I stumble forward as he pushes me toward the ballroom, my thighs pressed together, the hidden mask inside me scraping against the most sensitive parts of me. Every step feels wrong and tastes like shame.
Even if I close my eyes, I’d still see him. Shut out every sound, and I’d still hear that depth of his voice. I could lose my legs and still, somehow, I’d find a way to follow him.
