Page 111 of Rosetti Family New York

Her words are confident, but there's a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She’s so used to standing on her own, a fortress of independence. I wonder if she can see through her own armor, see how weary she is of being untouchable.

I let the silence stretch, knowing it will get under her skin. Besiana doesn't like pausing; she’s all about precision.

Finally, I say, "You told me once that I’m allowed to bleed. Same goes for you. You're allowed to feel, and you're allowed to let me help."

She opens her mouth, closes it, her thoughts ticking. Her fingers worry at the napkin, and her gaze drops to the table. I can see her wrestling with herself, the idea so foreign she can barely hold onto it. When she looks up, she shakes her head, a rueful smile playing on her lips. "I should never have been so forthright."

"Yes you fucking should."

It comes out more forceful than I intend, but I don't regret it.

I look at her, taking in the shape of her, the way her dress plunges into her neckline. I feel like a man drowning, and she's the only thing I want to pull me under.

The bill comes, and I throw a few hundreds on the table, not bothering to count. I watch Besiana stand, graceful as always, and my eyes linger on her legs, the curve of her hips. She's all elegance and control, and I want nothing more than to shatter both.

We walk outside, and the city hits me with its noise and light. People spill out of bars, laughing too loudly, living lives that seem foreign to me. My world narrows and sharpens until it's just the two of us. My hand finds hers, and I pull her toward me, into the shadow of the restaurant.

All I can think about is her lips. The one time I allowed her near me, the punishment that punished me more than her. The memory of it burns, searing through every thought. She wrapped those lips around my cock like it was an act of defiance, like she was claiming me even as I tried to claim her. But now I want to give her more than that. More than punishment. I want to give her pleasure.

I push her against the window. She doesn't resist, doesn't try to hold back. It's a shock to my system, her willingness. Her eyes meet mine, filled with fire that mirrors my own.

“You can be forthright with me, cara,” I say.

I take her mouth with mine, kissing her like I’m starved for it, for her. Her lips are soft and urgent, and I press into her, feeling the heat and the need and the promise of everything to come.

18

Besiana

The restaurant sits on a crowded sidewalk in the middle of Manhattan. It's exactly the kind of place that promises privacy and delivers spectacle. Domenico ignored our table by the window as much as possible during dinner. He’s not ignoring it now.

He presses me against it, kissing me hard. I'm light-headed from the kiss. My dress, white and indecent, has twisted up my legs, and the look in his eyes is doing the same to the rest of me.

I say, “Let’s go home.”

He pulls back a little, only a little, and I already miss him.

“I have a better idea,” he says.

Dom’s hand grips mine, possessive and urgent, as he leads me down the block. There’s so much noise and light—yellow taxis splashing through puddles, red taillights stopped in a line, and the flash of traffic signals as they change. The air has a chill that I can feel through my dress, but my skin is hot, electric. The city smells like leather and asphalt and power, and the sidewalk is packed with men in suits, women in heels. The women stare as Dom cuts a path through the crowd. He’s used to this; I’m usedto this. But tonight I don’t like it. I don’t want to share him with their eyes. Not tonight. Not after he just kissed me like that.

“What’s this amazing idea?” I ask, teasing, feeling lighter than ever.

“You’ll see, cara.”

We’re two doors down before I realize where we’re headed. A sleek black awning. A lobby full of granite and glass. A discreet brass sign over a doorman in a green wool coat: the Aman Hotel.

Domenico strides to the front desk. A gold band sparkles on the wrist of a girl with a ballerina bun and a French accent. She knows who we are.

“You have a reservation, Mister Rosetti?”

“Domenico,” I say, shifting my weight and crossing my arms. “You made a reservation?” My voice has a cool edge, but really I am a little in awe. In this place, last-minute means next month. Not for us, apparently.

He pulls me against him, my back to his chest, his hands on my hips. It’s not an answer to my question, but it’s better than one. “No reservation. But I’ll take the penthouse suite.”

“Monsieur, the penthouse is already booked—”

“Now,” he says, pulling a thick stack of bills from his wallet. The girl in the bun smiles professionally, but her eyes light up.