I open the door and climb out in my bare feet. My injured foot throbs from wearing the high heels.
I tug my short skirt down. Funny how what felt empowering and sexy in the club now seems shameful. At least it does until I catch the appreciative once over from Carlo when he meets me on the sidewalk.
Ok. He’s not going to shame me. He likes what he sees.
Which means… this punishment might be more pleasure than pain.
Then again, it might not. I suspect one of the reasons Carlo has risen to power so quickly in my father’s organization is his ruthlessness. I’ve even heard it mentioned he has a sadistic streak.
So pleasure for him. Pain for me.
I can work with that. I’m a dancer–we’re natural masochists.
Carlo escorts me up the stairs with a hand at my lower back. I like the way it feels—gentlemanly and courteous like we’re a couple. Like he’s not leading me upstairs to do terribly kinky things with me.
The door to my place is thick and solid. My dad had it replaced for security measures, complete with a heavy-duty lock. Carlo still has my set of keys and doesn’t bother to ask which one opens the door, just picks one and tries it. He chooses correctly. The door swings open, and he gestures for me to enter first.
I set my purse and heels down. Carlo slides off his tailored Italian suit jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. When he slowly rolls up his sleeves, the butterflies dancing in my stomach take flight.
This is really happening. He plans to punish me. And enjoy it.
I wonder why that idea turns me on.
He walks over to me, a glint in his eye that I don’t recognize. Dark and serious. Dangerous. He reaches for the top button on my blouse and unfastens it.
Oh God. The flesh between my legs clenches and lifts.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“I’m going to punish you in the state of undress you were in at the club.” His voice is dark and velvety. He stands so close, I can see the stubble of his five o’clock shadow in contrast to the soft pillows of his sensual lips.
I gulp air to clear my head. Hot. This is super hot.
Carlo’s deft fingers move down my buttons then pull my blouse down over my shoulders. I shake my arms out from it.
He twirls his finger in the air, indicating I should turn around.
My heart thuds against my chest. I turn then look over my shoulder at my father’s soldier. The young man who came in and instantly made a place for himself. Carlo’s the relation of a relation, sent to America when things got too hot in Sicily if I understand correctly. Not that anyone has ever said as much to me, but that’s what I’ve gleaned from overheard conversations.
Carlo’s expression remains unfathomable, but I see heat in his eyes as he reaches for the zipper at the back of my skirt. God, he’s handsome—olive skin, green eyes, dark, wavy hair worn on the longer side for a man. He stands six foot two and is built of solid muscle but moves with feline grace.
Heat swirls in my pelvis, flushes up my torso and chest. The skirt falls to my feet in a puddle. I stand in nothing but my white lace G-string and bikini top, goosebumps rising on my flesh.
Carlo takes my elbow and guides me to the arm of my overstuffed sofa. “Bend over.”
My panties grow damp. I look at the rounded cushion. While I understand what he wants from me, my body won’t move. I stand frozen, watching as he slowly unbuckles his belt. Breath coming in short little gasps, I will myself to calm down. Hyperventilation wouldn’t be a good look for me.
Carlo moves with his signature confidence, pulling the belt from its loops in one smooth motion. He turns it over in his large palm, examining the edges and weighing the heft and thickness. I have to wonder how often he’s done this. How many other women? He definitely seems like he knows what he’s doing.
When his attention returns to me, he frowns. He winds the buckle end of the belt around his fist. “When I give you an order,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, “I expect it to be obeyed.”
My nipples tighten at his threatening growl, but for a moment, I’m suddenly not sure about any of this. I don’t know this Carlo–he’s acting so different from the charming, easy-going guy who sits at my parents’ dining room table on Sundays. I’m not sure whether I want to go through with it. Whether I trust Carlo. How serious he is about this.
He steps closer, right into my space and wraps his hand around my nape, pulling my face right up to his. “Don’t be scared, Summer,” he says softly, his beautiful hazel gaze locked on mine. His clean, masculine scent filled my nostrils. “I know what I’m doing.”