My notebooks and laptop, pens and paperwork sit in neat piles and bins, beside a small bookshelf with my favorite books.
It’s a simple, well-furnished place, but I much prefer Tuscany. It feels… stifling here. Too stifling.
I kick off my heels, pick them up, and carry them to the walk-in closet. I wipe them clean and neatly place them on a rack before I head to the bathroom. I step out of my clothes and put them into the laundry hamper before I reach for a soft, sky-blue satin robe. I breathe a sigh of relief. It feels so good to relax.
If I didn’t want to see Santo before he has his late-night meeting, I’d treat myself to a bath. But now there’s no time.
I head to the bathroom and start the water, grab a handful of shower salts, and toss them on the floor in the line of water. A gentle, relaxing scent of lavender and vanilla fills the air, and the steam in the room comforts me. I hang my robe up and step into the hot, steaming shower.
All the while, I’m listening for him. I’m wondering how things went with the nanny.
I’m wondering how things will go with us.
I spin under the steady stream of warm water but pull a shower cap on to keep my hair dry while I lather up my legs and begin to shave.
The sound of a turning doorknob makes me freeze with my hand outstretched to a bar of soap.
He wouldn’t.
Would he?
The bathroom door opens. I can see his shadow silhouetted on the frosted glass.
“Hey!”
“Hey.”
“That was not a hey in greeting. That was a hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing? hey.”
He grunts in response, shuts the door behind him, and sits on the closed toilet lid.
“Ah, hello?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Santo,” I whisper.
“Rosa,” he whispers back.
I crack open the shower door and peek out. “How’d it go with the nanny?”
He shrugs. “She’s gone.”
“She take it okay?”
“Kind of.”
I don’t push any further. Closing the shower door, I rinse the soap off my body and change the subject.
“What are you doing in here?” My words are swallowed up by steam.
“Watching you,” he retorts.
“I don’t think this is the type of watching Tavi had in mind.”
“He didn’t specify.”
Oh God. Oh God.
“Pretty sure I’m safe in here.”
“You are now.”
Why does that make tears well up in my eyes?
With trembling hands, I finish shaving my legs and washing until I’m squeaky clean. I’m nervous about leaving. What will he do?
“Will I still be safe when I get out of this shower?” I ask.
“That depends,” he says in that deep, melodic, yet almost sinister voice.
“On what?” I whisper.
“If you behave yourself.”
“Santo, we can’t—you shouldn’t.”
“Go ahead,” he says in an angry whisper. “Tell me what I can and cannot do, Rosa. Tell me what I should and shouldn’t do. Try me. I’m dying for a chance to remind you who I am.”
His pet peeve, being told what to do.
Why does the sound of his voice make me deliciously squirmy inside? The threat of being reminded of exactly who he is.
The most fearless man I know. The most ruthless.
The most passionate.
I yank the handle to the water to “off” and stand in front of him, the steam still rising like mist around me. “Go ahead, then,” I say, unable to mask the feeling in my voice, the challenge. “Watch me.”
I put one long leg on the edge of the tub and reach for my towel, giving him a full view of my ass. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t know why I’m teasing him. I don’t know why I’m pushing anger aside before it chokes me, but he makes me so angry I want to scream.
“Come here.” His voice snaps in the warm room.
“Oh?” I say coyly. I give him a curious look with my head tipped to the side. “Why?” My voice is a whisper, laced with curiosity and lust.
No man has ever made me crave his touch.
Until Santo.
No man has ever broken me in all the best ways.
Until Santo.
No man has ever made me forget every other man I’ve touched before or ever will.
Until…
“Because I told you so. And I think you remember what happens when you push your boundaries with me, Rosa.”
“Oh, Santo,” I say, shaking my head. “We don’t have boundaries. We don’t have… there is no… there is no we, and you know it.”
My words ignite a flame in him. He’s on his feet, his eyes flashing, before I can respond.
“Don’t lie to me, Rosa.” He stalks over to me. “Don’t tell me that every time that fucking traitor Mercadio ever touched you, you didn’t pretend it was me. Don’t lie to me.” He stops himself inches away from me. I grab the towel and wrap it around myself, but he only grasps the front of it in his fist and yanks me closer. He can’t mask the pain and fury in his voice. “Don’t tell me that every time you lay beneath him, you didn’t wish it was me.”