Ding, ding, ding. Get the man a prize.
“Right,” I said this so quietly it was barely a whisper.
“Jesus Christ,” was what he said before he bit his tongue, but it didn’t take a genius to finish his sentence. If I had to guess, I was sure it the rest of his statement went something like “You, Vittoria Vero, are an unimaginable asshole and you make me sick”.
With everything my sister had told me about this man, I expected the beast to attack. She would have had me believe that even the smallest transgression would result in a beating. So, I suppose I was surprised when rather than tearing me to shreds – which, let’s be honest, I would have deserved – Ettore simply closed his eyes then lifted his hand to massage his temple. I watched his jaw tense then release, over and over again, and I had to curl my toes into the plush rug beneath me to stop myself from going to him. I knew it would be unwise after he very clearly told me to stay the fuck away from him. But I had the oddest sensation. A prickling at my nape that did not enjoy seeing him pained. And an even more reckless desire of wanting to touch and comfort him.
My heart ached when he let his guard down and showed just how tired he was. He opened his eyes, glanced over me as a whole, then calmly uttered, “I’ll call down, get you some new clothes. Go shower, Vittoria. We’re gonna be late.”
What?
Confused but grateful, I realized something as I offered a passive nod, then excused myself to the bathroom to do as he asked.
Ettore Scala could very well be my worst nightmare, but these were not the actions of a monster.
* * *
Ettore drove an Aston Martin.I confess, it wasn’t the brand of car that surprised me, but the model. I expected him to drive something sleek and sporty, but when the black SUV pulled around, I was sure they’d brought out the wrong car. But then he took the keys and stepped forward. He opened the passenger door and offered me a hand. I glanced down at his open palm and let out a slow breath as I took it. His fingers curled around mine and as I seated myself, I saw Ettore look down at my forearm. Thankfully, he did mention the fact that I had goosebumps. He didn’t have to. We both saw them. He closed the door after me and walked around to the driver’s side. A quick glance at the back seat and realization dawned.
Of course, this car was perfect for him.
The two booster seats in the back had a ghost of smile forming on my lips before a sudden thought had that smile transforming into an expression of pure terror.
Yesterday, I wasn’t ready to become a wife.
Today, I was a stepmother.
It seemed that amongst the chaos yesterday brought, I’d forgotten about that small detail.
“Oh shit,” I whispered wide-eyed as Ettore stepped into the car.
After my shower, I stepped out of the bathroom to find a gorgeous black midi dress with a pencil skirt and white trim waiting for me. It was not something I would have ever chosen for myself but I had to admit the white Dorset buttons trailing from the left side of the waist, down to the thigh were absolutely stunning. To the left of the dress were two white paper bags and on the floor in front was a tan colored shoe box with something scribbled over the top.
A quick look through the bags had me finding a hair brush, basic makeup in the perfect shades, and a black lace demi bra and matching panties. The cups of the bra were so low I thought they might not cover my nipples. I almost refused to wear the racy lingerie, but when I found I had no other option, I slipped them on and…
I looked good. I was almost too curvy for the ensemble but my softness spilled over in just the right way. On top of that, it made me feel confident. It made me feel sexy.
Who knew?
There was a moment when I lifted the dress that I was sure it was going to be too small, but I shimmied the skirt up and over my thick thighs quite easily. I opened the box on the floor and gasped at how beautiful the black pumps inside were. I slipped the red-bottomed heels on effortlessly and although a small smile teased my lips, my brow furrowed as a thought struck me.
How did Ettore know my sizes?
I didn’t time to think on it. Instead, I brushed my hair and used the travel size hairspray to tame my awful fly-aways. I applied a light coat of foundation and layered my mascara until my lashes were thick and long, and when I got around to looking at my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. Apart from the deep purple bruises around my neck, I looked classy in a way that screamed wealth.
Now, in the car, Ettore and I hadn’t spoken a word to each other, but as I kept my eyes ahead, from my peripheral, I could see him glancing over at me more than was wise.
Knowing I commanded his attention had me warm in places I shouldn’t have been. I shuffled in my seat, restlessly. I turned away, flushed, when I caught Ettore adjusting the hard ridge of his crotch.
The sexual tension grew and grew until it filled the cab of the car and it suffocated, and then I found myself blurting out, “Thank you for the dress.” He looked at me with a marred brow, so I added, “It’s beautiful.”
When he didn’t immediately respond, my stomach twisted and I turned to stare out of the passenger window. But then he rumbled, “It looks good on you,” and I felt those words trace a path from the pulse at my throat, over the hardened nubs of my nipples, down lower until it circled my clit and I was forced to squeeze my legs together to relieve myself of the dull throb.
My mouth was dry as the Sahara, but it was only polite to respond in kind. My voice came out huskier than intended. “You look handsome.”
Again, he was either taking his time to respond, or he simply didn’t plan to. But when I chanced a peek at him, I found him gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles turned white. His jaw was steeled and his nostrils flared.
For a second, my chest seized. I didn’t understand.