Page 13 of Beauty and the Daddy

Then he lets go, steps back, and walks away like he hasn't just detonated a bomb in my underwear.

Back in my room, I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.

What am I doing here? What does Moretti actually want from me?

The "you belong to me" bit was clear enough, but what does that mean in practical terms?

Am I supposed to be his maid? His arm candy? His...

My mind goes places it shouldn't.

Places involving those tattooed arms pinning me down. Those intense eyes watching me come undone.

That mouth, set in a hard line, doing things that make me gasp and beg.

Jesus, Belle. Get it together.

The problem is, I've never been good at relationships.

My dating history is basically a collection of the cheaters, the mama's boys, the ones who weren't "looking for anything serious right now" but were engaged six months later to someone else.

And through it all, I've somehow managed to keep my V-card.

Not for lack of trying, mind you. Just a combination of bad timing, and worse luck.

And it's strange, but one little whiff of Luca Moretti, and my body is lighting up like Times Square on New Year's Eve.

I groan and close my eyes. This is so inappropriate… so wrong.

My skin feels too tight. My breath comes too fast.

Every nerve ending he's lit up still sparks like live wires.

I can still feel him—his heat, his hands, the promise in his voice when he said "harder."

This is insane. He's holding me hostage.

I should be planning escape, not imagining those scarred hands on my body.

Not wondering if his control in the ring translates to the bedroom.

Not desperate to know what that mouth would feel like between my...

"Stop," I tell myself.

But my hands are already moving. To my breast, squeezing through the dress. Down my stomach. Under the hem.

My fingers find evidence of my complete moral collapse—I'm drenched. Ready.

Aching for a man who's bought me like property.

"Fuck," I gasp, but my fingers are already moving, circling my clit through soaked cotton.

In my mind, they aren't my fingers. They're his—rough, demanding, skilled.

His mouth at my throat, teeth scraping. His voice in my ear telling me exactly what he plans to do to me.

How he'll take me apart piece by piece until I beg.