Page 32 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

The bulk of my dresses are casual, everyday-wear numbers.

I do have a few that could be considered fancy, elegant gowns.

But mostly, I’m a pants girl. In my book, a good pair of pumps can elevate any pants outfit to a classy ensemble.

However, that won’t cut it with my darling husband.

The unique terms of our prenup agreement clearly outline that he expects floor-length designer dresses for his damn social engagements.

And according to the schedule he was so kind to share with me, there will be three of those this month alone.

I’m thankful I was able to raid Sienna’s closet and borrow some of her more muted pieces.

They’ll do in the short term, but an unavoidable shopping trip is definitely in my future.

Holding a handful of the nonslip hangers and their accompanying dresses, I head across the room to the walk-in closet.

It’s conveniently located near the bed, with oak double doors that match in style to the ornate room entrance.

There’s a freestanding armoire sectional on the other side as well, but that thing is too small for all the clothes I had to bring.

Not to mention my stash of Arturo’s “borrowed” jackets that are still hidden among my unpacked things.

Shifting the hangers to my left hand, I grab the handle and slide the door to the side. It moves smoothly and silently, without much effort, to reveal—

“What the—” I choke out.

My eyes bounce across the spacious room, eventually landing on the massive bed at the far end and a muscular male body sprawled face down upon it.

A naked male body.

My jaw hits the floor. This isn’t a walk-in closet. My asshole husband put me in a room that connects to his own! And the man sleeps naked! Naked!

I spin around, wanting to slam the door shut. No matter how gorgeous he is, he doesn’t deserve any attention from me. The bastard’s ego is big enough. But an overwhelming sense of curiosity gets the better of me. Biting my lower lip, I glance over my shoulder.

It’s undeniable that Arturo DeVille is a handsome devil, especially in those bespoke three-piece suits of his.

But I never expected him to be this well-built.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit my heartbeat picks up speed as I ogle the mass of impeccably defined muscles laid out before my eyes.

Every part of him looks like it’s carved from marble.

Every sharp plane, ridge, and valley is chiseled to perfection.

Including his ass. Especially his ass. I’m pretty sure I could bounce a coin off that thing.

Ugh! I hate myself for looking!

Stupid dickhead! Why does he have to be so goddamn beautiful?

Tearing my gaze off his glorious behind, I stare at his thick, inked forearm as he clutches the pillow to his face.

The memory of that strong arm holding me up during our wedding ceremony floods me.

The way his presence, just being held by him, managed to pull me out of my spiral into an inevitable panic attack was simply unreal.

Incredible. Unlikely. But true nevertheless.

It’s as if Arturo DeVille is a force of nature, stronger than anything in his path.

Aside from my family or very close friends, I’ve never felt safe around people. But at that moment, the arms of my archenemy were the most sheltered place on earth. I would have done anything to stay within their secure embrace. Just the idea that he might let me go spiked greater anxiety.

I craved more of that heat he carries within him. The bastard’s skin is always hot to the touch. I went for his tie, trying to get closer to his warmth. Needing more skin-to-skin contact. But he assumed I simply wanted to fuck him. Whatever. Satan DeVille can imagine whatever fantasy he likes.

However, the truth… the truth I can’t deny, is that in his arms I felt protected. As if having him with me would somehow make everything right. That, even after everything he’s done, the way he’s treated me… something inside me still recognized Arturo DeVille as safe.

Could it be because he already knows what a disaster I usually am? He read that background check on me, so I can’t possibly disappoint him. Is that what made him a refuge in my spiraling mind? It must be. It can’t possibly be anything else.

Can it?

This line of thinking is getting me nowhere. Arturo DeVille might have done me a solid, but that’s it. Who says he won’t demand something in return? Well, he won’t if I just don’t admit to anything. As of this instant, all stupid thoughts about him need to be gone.

After discarding the stack of dresses on the nearby chair and tiptoeing my way to his bed, I yank on the corner of the pillow, ripping it out of his hold.

“Wakey, wakey, darling. Care to explain what happened to my room being as far from yours as possible?”

Arturo cracks an eye open, squinting at me. “What time is it?”

I blink, momentarily bewildered by how… how boyish he looks.

There isn’t a trace of his usual flawless swept-back style.

His hair is all tousled from sleep, sticking up in every direction and falling across his eyes.

That constant scowl he wears is also missing from his face.

His morning voice is raspy, more than it typically is.

“Um… almost noon.”

“Fuck,” he sighs, moving his big hand to cover the half of his face not smashed into a pillow. “I need to get back to the office. Meant to catch a couple of hours at mo…”

Silence. I wait for him to continue, but instead of words, his deep rhythmic breaths fill the room. He’s asleep again. Should I wake him?

I poke his bulging biceps. “DeVille.”

“ Ma lasciami dormire, ” he mumbles into his pillow.

Holy shit. His voice is even more seductive when he speaks Italian. Husky, spellbinding, like a purr. I’m certain whatever he said wasn’t an invitation to join him but, damn it, it sure sounded like that to me.

I poke him again, but he doesn’t even stir. Is he dead? No, I wouldn’t be that lucky.

My eyes glide along his trunk-like arm, cataloging the shapes inked into his skin.

A thin gray snake is coiled twice around his wrist before it winds its way among the depicted foliage.

Part of its body disappears behind a wicked-looking human skull on DeVille’s upper forearm.

The wings of some sort of mythical creature hug his massive biceps and triceps, and above it all, a dagger with a ribbon attached to the hilt.

A word I can’t quite make out is etched upon the wavy strip.

I tilt my head, trying to get a better look, but all I can make out is l’On .

I shouldn’t be so eager to inspect the tattoos on my husband.

Actually, nothing about Arturo DeVille should hold my interest, but I still find myself leaning closer, stretching to decipher the inked script.

Ha! The first word is l’Onore , but there’s more.

I brace on one leg, holding my arms out for balance to get to a better angle. If I stretch just a bit more, I could—

My foot slips.

I throw my hand in front of me to regain my equilibrium, only to end up sprawled on top of my husband. “Shi—”

He moves faster than a damn ninja. One second, I’m flopped over him, and the next, I’m on my back, pinned under a fuming mountain of hard muscle. My wrists are secured above my head in Arturo’s hands, and he’s glaring down at me.

“Tara?” He blinks as his expression morphs from a murderous snarl into a perplexed frown. “What the fuck?”

“Exactly!” I try to wriggle free. “Let me go!”

“What are you doing in my bed?”

“I’m not in your bed!”

He lifts an eyebrow.

“It was an accident, okay? I was trying to get a better look at your tat, and I slipped. Now, release me.”

“I think this is the first time a woman has ended up in my bed by accident .”

My mouth falls open, preparing to deftly send him to hell, only for me to be completely ensnared by the wicked glint in his eyes.

Eyes that are entirely focused on my lips.

His hair is somehow even more tousled, making him look a little wild and all kinds of sexy.

It’s like he’s suddenly become a totally different man than the uptight jerk I’ve come to know and hate.

The sleek, decorous, and exacting Arturo DeVille has always been a sight to behold, albeit an extremely irritating one.

But this… I never could have imagined him like this.

Disheveled. Slightly feral-looking. Smelling of clean soap and shampoo, without any trace of that rich blend of exotic spices and earthy sensuality of the cologne he always wears.

The rumpled Arturo DeVille is a thousand times hotter.

My breath hitches in my lungs. And I can’t seem to make my limbs move. Or maybe I just don’t want to. Having Arturo DeVille—a very naked Arturo DeVille—crushing me into the mattress beneath him is intoxicating. An experience that sets off an ache deep in my core and makes my clit throb.

Desire. Desire floods me, spreading tingles over every part of my body.

My throat goes dry at the memory of those sinister lips on mine.

My fingers itch to reach out and muss that hair, all so I can revel in knowing that it was I, and not sleep, that left him this way.

The cross dangling off his chain draws my eyes to his collarbone.

It’s an undeniably sexy collarbone. I want to reach out and stroke it with the tip of my finger.

Or maybe my tongue. What would it feel like to—

No!

Stop.

I shut my eyes, trying to force the mental images of him fucking me, hard, right here and now, out of my head.