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.

What did I say to make him so angry?

It was force of habit when I opened my mouth to apologize, but he growled, “Are you sore?”

Confusion settled over me. “Uh…”

His eyes bore into mine and for a second, he looked so unhinged that I leant away from him. He then clarified, roughly, “Your pussy, Vittoria.” Oh my God. What a question. “Are you sore?”

My neck heated in discomfiture. I nodded lightly and my voice shook when I admitted, “A little.”

The vicious smile that tipped at his lips scared me. My heart began to race when he chuckled darkly and promised, “I hope you have a high pain threshold because later, after I’m done with you, it’s going to hurt so much worse. You’re going to ache from it. You’ll feel me inside of you for days.”

It wasn’t the delicate kind of wooing I was used to. In fact, it was a cold blatant threat. I shouldn’t have wanted that.

Why did I want that?

Because your passive nature craves to please your husband.

Because you want to be used again.

Because you know he’ll make it hurt so good.

My fingers ached to reach for him, to pull him close and kiss his pouting lips and forget all of the foolishness. All I could do was reach up to my shoulder and grip my seatbelt with both hands in an attempt to stop myself. I wondered how long this lunch would last.

Not too long, I hoped.

8. Dogs and other animals

Chapter 8

Dogs and other animals

Vittoria

Lunch was about as awkward as I imagined it would be.

The car slowed as we entered a cul-de-sac with two rows of impressive houses on both sides, but it was the towering mansion at the head of the street that we approached. Ettore didn’t stop when we reached it, either. He pulled up, right into the drive and parked next to a champagne-colored Mercedes Benz.