Page 21

Chapter twenty

Alessa

I can’t scrub his smell off me. No matter how hot I make the shower or how hard I scrub, Dominic’s cologne lingers on my skin like a stubborn reminder of last night. And the worst part? I’m not even sure I want it gone.

What the hell is wrong with me? This guy literally kidnapped me, threatened me, killed people in front of me, and here I am reliving how his hands felt all over my body. Great journalistic integrity there, Alessa... Pulitzer Prize material.

When I woke up this morning, his side of the bed was still warm. He left without waking me—probably off doing whatever mobsters do at the crack of dawn. Making threats? Collecting money? Who the hell knows?

I can’t stand that I actually pressed my face into his pillow before catching myself. Like some lovesick idiot instead of a woman being held against her will...Maybe I truly have finally lost it. The thought makes my stomach twist.

Stockholm Syndrome.

Is that what this is? Is that why, for one insane second, I let myself sink into the warmth of his scent, breathing him in like he belonged to me?

I shove the pillow away like it burns, my face heating with shame.

God, what the hell is wrong with me?

He’s my damn captor. The man keeping me locked in this room, holding my freedom in his hands. And yet… my traitorous body still hums with the ghost of his touch. My lips still tingle from the way he kissed me, rough and demanding, like he wanted to own me. Like he already did.

I press my hands to my face and exhale shakily.

I can’t be this woman. I won’t be.

Because if I let myself fall, if I let myself believe for even a second that he could be something other than my enemy…

I might never fight my way back.

I rummage through the ridiculous walk-in closet that could probably fit half my Manhattan penthouse inside it. I’m already wearing a flowy champagne satin skirt that costs more than what most people make in a month. The price tag is still hanging from the waistband—seriously, who leaves price tags on clothes? Oh right, rich assholes who want to remind you they’re rich assholes.

I grab a deep green Saint Laurent top with a twisted front—modest enough for church, but expensive enough to remind everyone exactly who I belong to. The most dangerous man in the room.

My skin still tingles with the memory of last night, which is wildly inappropriate for a place of worship, but let’s be honest—there are worse sins happening under this roof.

My makeup is understated—just enough mascara to sharpen my gaze, nothing too bold. Can’t look like I’m trying too hard. My hair falls in loose red waves, the color making my freckles stand out even more against the emerald fabric. Something’s different about me, because whatever self-consciousness I usually battle seems quieter. But it’s not just the clothes. Not just the makeup... I look... alive.

And I hate that I know why.

The realization knots in my stomach, shame battling with a thrill... craving, and the sick satisfaction of being wanted by the one man I should fear.

Get it together, Alessandra.

Don’t mistake survival for softness. Don’t forget who he is. And most of all—don’t forget what he wants from you.

I need to get my head on straight. Sex is just sex. Amazing, mind-blowing, toe-curling sex—but still just sex. It doesn’t mean I’m going to hand over my father to the Commission on a silver platter. And this damn flutter in my stomach better be church anxiety—because if it’s actual feelings for the man holding me hostage, I’m screwed.

I’m reaching for the matching green heels when someone knocks. I open the door, hit immediately by his cologne. My brain short-circuits with a highlight reel from last night—his weight on me, the way he whispered my name, how he tasted.

Dominic adjusts his emerald green tie, his suit fits him perfectly, making him look like he stepped off a movie set. There’s a slight bulge under his jacket—his gun. Classic Dominic.

Even in church, this guy is armed.

His eyes flick over me with a glint of amusement.

“Coincidence?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at the matching green.

He smirks, looking me over with a touch of satisfaction. “Not exactly. I enjoy watching you, Alessandra.”

I freeze, narrowing my eyes. “What do you mean, ‘watching me’?”

He steps closer, voice smooth, his gaze calculating and nods toward the camera. “E very move… what you wear. How you react. Those cameras catch everything, bella . Everything. ”

“Just say you wanted to check if I was naked,” I shoot back, grinning despite myself.

“I wanted to check if you were naked,” he echoes, his voice dropping an octave. “If I had worn a red tie, we’d look like fucking Christmas.”

God, we’re flirting now? This is so messed up.

He tilts his head slightly, almost like he’s pitying me. “Be grateful... I keep you safe, piccola.”

I force a laugh, a cold, hollow sound. “You’re sick.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “It’s for your own good.”

His voice shifts, lighter, as if trying to throw me off balance. “You clean up nice.”

I snap out of my daze, blinking at him, realizing I’ve been staring like an idiot.

Say something. Anything. Stop being weird.

“You don’t look bad yourself,” I manage to say, turning away quickly before he notices the warmth creeping into my cheeks.

I head back to the closet, grabbing the pearl earrings I wore before—no way I’m digging through the ridiculous collection he provided. The last thing I need is him watching me try to pick out jewelry like a puppet on strings.

“People are going to see all this the wrong way, you know.” I step out of the closet, fastening my earrings, a pearl necklace in one hand, a matching green handbag in the other, which I drop by the door.

“Wrong how?” he asks, watching me check myself in the mirror. I hear him approach, and every nerve ending goes on high alert. “They’ll think you’re my lover, but you’re just the woman I dragged into this.”

I smirk at my reflection, knowing he can see me. Lifting the pearl necklace, I try to clasp it around my neck, but the stupid thing keeps slipping.

Dominic’s hands slide over mine from behind, taking the necklace. I freeze, every muscle tensing as he fastens it with practiced ease. His fingers brush my skin, and I hate how my body responds to even that tiny contact.

“There,” he says quietly. His eyes meet mine in the mirror, dark and hungry. “Perfect.”

He leans closer, his hands resting on my shoulders before sliding down my arms. My pulse kicks into overdrive, and heat pools low in my belly. Without warning, his lips press against the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.

Once. Twice. Three times.

My eyes close, and I tilt my head automatically. It’s scary how fast my body surrenders to him, how quickly my worries dissolve when he touches me.

For a moment, I pretend none of this is real. I’m not a captive. He’s not a killer. We’re just two people who met by chance and couldn’t keep our hands off each other. We’re back at that gala where everything was simpler, before I knew who he really was, what he was capable of.

Then I catch our reflection—me melting for the guy who’s literally holding me prisoner—and reality crashes back. What am I doing? I’ve spent years exposing men like him in my articles, and now I’m putty in his hands. I try to pull away, but his grip tightens.

“You look fucking beautiful,” he growls against my skin, his hands wandering to my waist, then hips. Before I can process what’s happening, he’s gathering my skirt in his fists.

I should fight it. I should pull away and remind myself of the person I used to be—the woman who wouldn’t fall for this. But my body is numb, held hostage by a need I can’t shake. My mind has completely checked out. All I can feel is the weight of him pressing in, the heat of his touch that drags me under. This isn’t me. This can’t be happening.

His hand slides between my legs, and I jerk in surprise. His other arm locks around my waist, holding me in place. There’s something both hot and scary about how easily he controls me, how he takes what he wants.

“Dominic,” I breathe, my body going slack. I’d die before admitting it, but right now his touch feels like the only thing keeping me sane.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.

Say something. Push him away, Alessa. Have some self-respect, my brain screams, but the words never come.

When I stay silent, he slips my underwear aside, finding the hood of my clit. A sharp gasp escapes me, my body jolting with an electricity that runs through every inch of my skin. He rubs me like he already knows exactly what I need—and in an instant, I’m completely at his mercy.

“Open your eyes,” he commands, his voice low and gravelly, like a warning I’m too eager to ignore.

I obey, and the sight in the mirror takes my breath away—my skirt hiked up, his hand between my legs, both of us gasping for air. I can’t tear my eyes away.

“Look at me.”

I meet his gaze, my breath catching as his eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that has me completely frozen. He’s holding me captive in a way no lock could.

“You like the way I touch you?” His voice, almost a growl.

I can’t speak, my mouth dry, so I nod, not trusting myself to form a coherent sentence.

“You can’t get enough of me, can you?” he murmurs, his fingers moving with precision that has my head spinning.

I shake my head, biting my lip, trying to stop the moans building in my chest.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, voice thick with desire, as his lips graze my earlobe. “You’re mine, Alessa.”

My entire body trembles, and I nod, too far gone to lie to myself.

“Say it.”

The words slip out breathlessly, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m yours.”

He smirks, but it’s a challenge in his eyes. “Say it again—louder this time.”

“I’m yours, Dominic,” I manage, my voice a little stronger, a little more sure of itself.

“Hmm,” he hums, his pace picking up, driving me crazy. “One more time. Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“This pussy is yours,” I whimper, pushing back against him, feeling the solid length of him pressing into me. “My pussy belongs to—“

The words die on my lips when he slides two fingers inside me, stretching me in ways that make my mind short-circuit. I squirm, the sensations overwhelming, but I can’t pull away. I want more. I crave more.

“Dominic, please,” I gasp, not even sure what I’m begging for. More of him? More of this? For everything outside of this moment to cease to exist?

“Look at you,” he growls, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that vibrates through my bones. “So fucking helpless. So goddamn needy.”

He moves faster, his fingers curling inside me with ruthless intent. His other hand slides up to grip my jaw, forcing me to keep watching our reflection.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he commands. “I want you to see exactly what you are to me.”

The hold isn’t painful, but it’s firm—unyielding. A reminder that even in this intimate moment, he controls everything.

“Ride my hand like a needy fucking slut,” he orders—no question in his tone, just absolute certainty that I’ll obey. And God help me, I do—grinding against him with everything I have, the obscene wet sounds filling the quiet room.

He finds that spot inside me that makes my vision blur, working it relentlessly. I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, trying desperately to stay quiet even as every nerve ending in my body catches fire.

“So. Fucking. Wet.” Each word punctuated by a deeper thrust of his fingers. His face presses against my cheek, but while I’m falling apart, he maintains that terrifying composure—like he could do this for hours, bringing me to the edge over and over until I break completely.

“Who makes you this wet, Alessa?” he demands, his voice still steady despite our synchronized panting.

“You,” I gasp, barely able to form words. “Only you.”

“That’s right,” he says, satisfaction dripping from every syllable. “Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody else gets to feel you dripping down their hand.”

His pace quickens deliberately, each stroke hitting deeper, bringing me closer to an edge I’m desperate to fall over. Heat coils tighter inside me, threatening to snap.

“You want to come?” The question is a formality. His smirk tells me he already knows the answer—can feel it in the way my body clenches around his fingers.

“Yes,” I breathe, trembling uncontrollably. “Please. I’m going to com—”

He slows suddenly, his fingers almost withdrawing completely. My body chases the sensation instinctively.

“Not until I say,” he whispers against my ear. The denial makes me whimper pathetically. “Who decides when this pussy lets go, Alessa?”

“You do,” I pant, desperation making my voice crack. “Please, Dominic.”

Satisfied with my surrender, he resumes his previous rhythm, moving even faster now. I writhe against him as pleasure builds to an unbearable point. Just when I think I might pass out from the tension, he starts rubbing his thumb faster in teeny tight circles.

“Now,” he commands, his voice like gravel. “Fucking. Come.”

My body obeys as if it belongs to him—which, at this moment, it absolutely does.

The orgasm crashes over me, brutal and unrelenting. I cry out his name, my body shaking, uncontrollable. My knees buckle, but Dominic steadies me, his grip firm as I fall apart in his arms.

I can’t catch my breath, my body a heap of trembling nerves, when he turns my face to his and kisses me—hard, demanding. It’s not gentle. It’s a claim, possessive and raw.

We stay like that for a moment, just breathing together. Then he withdraws his hand, fixing my underwear as I try to remember how my legs work. I smooth down my skirt, hoping I don’t look as thoroughly wrecked as I feel.

As I fix my hair, our eyes meet in the mirror again. Dominic slowly puts his fingers in his mouth, licking them clean.

“Fucking pervert,” I laugh, my face burning at how sexy it is. We’re about to go to church, and here he is, tasting me like I’m his favorite dessert.

“Fucking delicious.”

I notice his gaze shift to something behind me. Following his line of sight, I see the bedside drawer not quite closed—where I stashed the gun. His expression hardens slightly, then returns to normal so fast I almost think I imagined it. But I didn’t. He knows where I’m keeping it and isn’t saying another word about it. Even with his fingers still wet from being inside me, we’re playing this twisted game of cat and mouse.