Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3)

by J. T. Geissinger

  “You think you can do better?”

  It’s out of my mouth before I have any idea I’m going to say it, a husky whisper that sounds like I’m auditioning for a role in a porno. Apparently my uterus has taken control of all my bodily functions because though I should be pushing him away, what I really want to do is let him show me exactly what his eyes are saying he wants to do to me.

  All the dirty, wonderful things.

  He lowers his head and puts his mouth next to my ear. “Bella,” he chides. “You know I can.” Then he takes my earlobe into his mouth and gently suckles it as if it’s my clitoris.

  I almost die from the blast of lust that explodes inside my body. His mouth is wet and soft, his breath down my neck is hot, his stomach under my hands is as hard as steel. The little gasp that leaves my lips makes him chuckle.

  He whispers, “Don’t you?” and bites me on the neck.

  It’s not hard, not enough to break the skin or even leave a mark, just enough to be dominant. To let me know that he’s the man. He’d be in control of whatever we did in bed, and he’d make sure I fucking loved every second of it.

  It’s a good thing my knees are locked because there’s no way they’d be holding me up otherwise. He’s turned my bones to gelatin.

  He shifts his weight forward so I know he’s as aroused as I am. I feel every long, thick inch of him, and exhale a breath that inconveniently sounds exactly like a moan.

  Matteo takes my face in his hands. I take fistfuls of his shirt. He holds me there against the wall with his hard cock pressed into my crotch and looks deep into my eyes.

  “Don’t you.”

  This time it’s not a question. It’s a promise and a dare and above all an invitation. An invitation to say yes, to admit I know that if I had sex with him, he’d ruin me for all other men. That I know he’d pay close attention to my every arch and moan and shudder, that he’d read my body like a book and make it sing like a violin under his patient, plying hands.

  That he’d break me and make me beg before he’d give me everything I never knew I needed.

  When I’m silent too long, he softly warns, “Kimber.”

  My uterus pulls the final plug on my brain functions. I breathe, “Yes,” and stand on my toes and kiss him.

  He allows it just long enough for my nipples to tighten and begin to ache until he takes control back and pulls away. He keeps my face in one of his hands. The other he flattens against my chest. He spreads his big hand wide, the heel of his palm resting at the top swell of my breasts and his fingers flared out, as if he’s claiming the space.

  When he kisses the corner of my mouth, I close my eyes and give myself over to sensation.

  He nips my lower lip, taking it between his teeth and then gently sucking on it. He slips his tongue into my mouth with soft, delicious suction, using that hand on my chest to hold me back when I become impatient, leaning into him because I want more. I want it deeper.

  Against my mouth, he murmurs, “Sei cosí dolce.”

  I’m wet and throbbing between my legs. I want him to do the earlobe-sucking thing down there. I squeeze my thighs together restlessly, and he chuckles again.

  “Voglio mettere la mia faccia tra le tue gambe.”

  “Are you . . . are you talking dirty to me?”

  He slants me a heated look and smiles.

  Oh dear sweet lord in heaven. That burning smell is my panties going up in smoke.

  He takes my mouth again. This time his kiss is deeper, the way I wanted it. It’s searching. Needing. I slide my arms up his chest and over his shoulders and sink my fingers into all that glorious thick hair, using it to pull him even closer. We’re both breathing hard through our noses.

  He slides his hand down from my chest to the side of my ribs. When his thumb nudges my hard nipple, it sends a shock wave through my lower body. I moan into his mouth.

  He breaks the kiss and nuzzles his nose into my hair. “I want to suck on this,” he whispers, breathing raggedly, stroking his thumb lazily back and forth across my nipple. “I want to pinch it and suck on it and lick it. I want to test it with my teeth, see how much pressure you can take before you squirm.”

  I’m panting now. Literally panting, like a dog. Cornelia’s got nothin’ on me.

  But Mr. Hot Dirty Talk isn’t done yet.

  Right into my ear, in a tone somehow both hard and soft, he says, “I want to take off all your clothes and get you naked underneath me, spread you out on a bed so I can see all that beautiful skin. I want to put my face between your legs and eat your sweet pussy until you’re hoarse from screaming and limp from coming. Then I want to slide my hard cock deep inside you and fuck you, bella.”

  His hand tightens around my breast. He flexes his hips, dragging the fabric of my panties across my engorged clitoris, making me shudder.

  His voice turns rough. “I want to fuck you until you forget everyone and everything else but me. Until you’re satisfied. Until you’re mine.”

  The kiss we share is explosive. It’s hard and passionate and almost sloppy, our teeth clashing and both of us making animal sounds as we claw at each other in greed.

  “Wait—wait.”

  Panting, I push him away. We stare at each other for a beat as my brain reboots and I once more become capable of rational thought. “You’re using my designs.”

  He licks his lips, shakes his head a little as if to clear it. “What?”

  “My designs. From my sketch pad. You’re using them in your new collection. Right?”

  There’s a long silent moment where he simply looks at me and breathes raggedly. Then, through gritted teeth, he says, “Yes.”

  I shove him away, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and curse. Loudly. It echoes off the stone walls. “I don’t want you to. Don’t.”

  He straightens his tie. Smooths his hair. Says casually, “Are we negotiating?”

  Between him and Brad, it’s a miracle I haven’t committed murder already. “You know, you have to go to sleep at some point. But you don’t necessarily have to wake up.”

  He ignores my threat on his life. “Here’s my offer you didn’t want to hear earlier: a kiss for every page I return.”

  When I don’t respond, because I’m too breathless, he smirks. “Not a peck on the cheek, either. A kiss like the one we just shared.”

  A wave of hurt makes tears well in my eyes. How could he? How could he do this to me? Today, of all days, when I’m the most vulnerable I’ve ever been?

  I whisper, “When I’m telling my best friend the story of the exact moment I went from disliking you and distrusting you to hating you, this will be it.”

  His eyes flash with emotion, but he quickly regains control of whatever he was feeling. His handsome face becomes a cold mask. He says flatly, “There are twenty-six designs in that sketch pad. I’ll give you credit for the kiss we just had, plus the kiss at your father’s shop. That leaves twenty-four. I’ll leave it up to you when we start, but we’ll have to be done by the night before the shows in Milan.”

  I stare at him with my mouth open. “That’s three weeks.”

  One corner of his mouth lifts. “Better get started.”

  I’m somehow hot and cold at the same time. I’m sweating, but shivering. The shivering could be fury. “I’ll tell everyone. I’ll make sure everyone knows those designs are mine. I’ll call the press—”

  “Really? You want more press?” His gaze on mine is level.

  The thought of the stories that would circulate on the internet makes me sick. He knows exactly which target to aim for, that’s for sure.

  “It doesn’t matter. I can prove they’re mine.”

  “How? Your name is nowhere on that pad.”

  Shit. He’s right. I never wrote my name on the inside of the cover. I never thought I’d have to.

  “And you didn’t sign any of the sketches, so . . .” He shrugs.

  My face is so hot it burns. Furious, I glare at him. “I have copies of everythin
g. In San Francisco. On my computer. I always make copies of what I’m working on.”

  The smile that was flirting with one corner of his mouth blooms into a grin. “One of these days you’ll learn how to lie convincingly. Today isn’t it.”

  I want to hit him. I want to stab him. I want to set fire to his face. Spending the rest of my life in prison would be a fair price to pay to get rid of this ruthless prick once and for all. “I said I’d pay you back for the ticket, and I meant it. Once the shop is back on its feet—”

  “I don’t want your money, bella.”

  His voice is so soft, like fingertips lightly stroked down my cheek. It leaves no doubt as to his meaning.

  Starting to get desperate, I try a different tactic. “You don’t need my designs. Your company is the hottest thing going. Your menswear line alone is one of the most profitable—”

  “We’re expanding the ladies’ evening wear line.”

  I can tell he’ll have a comeback ready for anything I throw at him. I think he might have spent a considerable amount of time thinking this through.

  Like Brad and his plan for us to live a lie.

  My voice shakes with rage when I say, “My father would hate you for this.”

  He flinches. He recovers quickly, plastering the smile back on, but I know I got to him.

  But he effortlessly checkmates me. “No. Your father would be disappointed that you’re trying to go back on your word.”

  I gasp. That hurt so much he might as well have kicked me in the ovaries.

  He speaks again before I can spit out some curse. “We made a trade. A fair trade. One you agreed to freely.” His voice grows quieter. “A trade you admitted was the best gift you’ve ever been given, if you recall.”

  I can’t look at him anymore. I just can’t look at his awful, beautiful face one second longer.

  I turn and run.

  TWENTY

  The problem with castles is that they’re built to keep invaders out and the occupants safely in.

  Which means they’re annoyingly short on doors.

  The few I do find are huge, made of thick wood fortified with iron, and locked. I could get one of the axes from the Wall of Death and try to chop my way out, but I don’t have the energy. After wandering around for the better part of an hour, I finally give up and ascend a narrow winding stone staircase to a second floor. The staircase opens to a wide corridor lined with potted palms and ornate console tables, with the occasional ancient suit of armor standing vigilant in niches in the stone wall just to give you that warm, snuggly feeling of home.

  The first room I come upon is a library. It’s got overstuffed sofas and chairs, a cavernous fireplace at each end of the room, and heavy wooden bookcases fronted with glass that rise nearly to the ceiling. It looks like as good a place as any to hide for a while, so I flop into a tufted leather chair that could fit the Jolly Green Giant quite comfortably and stare morosely at my feet.

  The stupid chair is so big they dangle off the edge like a kid’s, not even touching the ground.

  I’m there no more than five minutes when one of the uniformed ladies I saw in the kitchen enters the room carrying a large tray. Approaching, she smiles at me and says something in Italian.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t, um . . . no comprende Italiano.” I realize that was some kind of botched Spanish, but I’m hoping she’ll get the gist.

  She shrugs, as if she couldn’t care less either way, and sets the platter on the coffee table in front of me. When I smell freshly baked bread, I perk up in my giant seat.

  The nice lady pulls off the napkin covering the tray with a flourish and gives me an overview of everything on the tray, pointing out various breads, meats, and cheeses, and looking at me every so often to make sure I’m following.

  Totally lost, I nod politely. I really need to learn that damn language.

  When she’s done, she asks me about something to do with the word vino.

  Now she’s talking. “Um . . . Chianti?”

  It’s the only Italian word I can think of other than vino that has to do with wine, but apparently it’s enough because she nods briskly, says something I interpret as she’ll be right back, then leaves.

  I stare at the tray with my mouth watering. As long as I’m here, I might as well let the asshole feed me.

  Before I can dig in, the telephone on the side table next to my giant chair rings. I hesitate, looking at it. There’s an electronic readout beneath the buttons that displays “Stanza di sicurezza.”

  Sicurezza. Secure? Security?

  On a whim, I decide to answer. Maybe it will be someone important trying to get hold of Matteo, and I can helpfully inform them that Matteo isn’t available due to his unfortunate admittance into rehab. Or prison.

  “Moshi moshi.”

  There’s a pause, then Matteo’s voice comes over the line. “I see you’ve been to Japan.”

  Of course he would know how they answer the phones in Japan. He’s probably got a castle over there, too, the prick. “I’m sorry, Matteo isn’t available at the moment. He’s busy being a horrible human being. If you want to catch him when he’s not being a massive asshole, you’ll have to call back when pigs fly and hell has frozen over.”

  “You should try the chair next to the fireplace. It’s a more appropriate size for you.”

  I look around suspiciously but don’t spot him lurking in any doorways. “Where are you?”

  “In the security room. Looking at you on a video screen.”

  I glance at the ceiling. Sure enough, there are two security cameras affixed on opposite ends of the room. I flip them both off and hang up the phone.

  It rings again almost immediately. I look up at the ceiling and shake my head. After a moment, the phone falls silent. Good. He got the hint. I turn my attention to the platter of meats and cheeses. It looks fantastic. There are some dried fruits, too, and nuts, and some of that really yummy—

  The phone starts to ring again.

  I realize this could go on for quite a while. I’m starving, so I give in and pick up. “What?”

  In a low, heartfelt voice, he says, “I hate seeing you unhappy.”

  “Are you bipolar? Is that the root issue here?”

  “No. I’m telling you the truth—I hate seeing you unhappy.”

  “You can repeat that until the cows come home, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re perfectly willing to be the source of my unhappiness. One of the sources, anyway.”

  I hear him exhale. In a lighter tone, he says, “Where do you think that saying originated?”

  Confused, I make a face. “What?”

  “Until the cows come home.”

  I sigh heavily, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Being around you is enough to drive anyone insane, you know that?”

  His voice gets quiet again. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Seriously?” I grip the receiver so hard it could crack. “Stop it, then!”

  “I can’t.”

  I hang up, then take the receiver off the hook so he can’t call back. In a few minutes, the nice lady returns with an open bottle of wine and a glass already filled. She sets the bottle on the coffee table next to the platter of food and hands me the glass.

  “Ecco.”

  “Thank you. Um, grazie.”

  She folds her hands over her apron, tilts her head, and examines me. Then she launches into a long and impassioned speech—about what I have no idea, because it’s all in Italian.

  At the end of it she sighs. Then, in English, she says, “But he’s worth it.”

  She pats me on the shoulder, then turns around and leaves.

  I guzzle the glass of wine and pour myself another.

  I remember nothing else until I wake up with a pounding headache and a mouth that tastes like a homeless person took a dump in it.

  Lifting my head sends spikes of pain shooting through the back of my skull. I crack open an eye and look around the room. Where am I? And how did I get
here?

  Cavernous yet cozy, the room is fit for a king. The ceiling is dark wood, crossed by thick beams. A circular iron chandelier hangs in the middle. The stone walls are warmed by colorful tapestries and framed landscapes in oils. Scattered over the floor are half a dozen thick tasseled area rugs. The furniture is also dark wood, heavy and masculine, and the fireplace is so big you could burn an SUV in it.

  The massive four-poster bed I’m lying in is carved with elaborate scenes from a fox hunt. I find that vaguely disturbing.

  Slightly more disturbing is the sight of Matteo asleep in a chair beside the bed.

  He’s sitting up, fully dressed, including his shoes. He’s loosened his tie, but that’s the only evidence he tried to get comfortable. His head is tilted back, exposing the strong line of his throat, and his hair is a little mussed, as if he were running his hands through it.

  On the bedside table sits a glass of water and two aspirin.

  As if he sensed me looking at him, his eyes flutter open. He turns his head and looks at me. His face is sleepy and soft, and his gaze is warm and hazy.

  So this is what you look like when you wake up.

  When he smiles, my heart hurts even more than my head.

  His voice thick with sleep, he asks, “How do you feel?”

  “Like shit. What happened?”

  He stands, stretches his neck, then picks up the aspirin and holds them out to me. “You drank an entire bottle of wine in under thirty minutes, then passed out. Take these.”

  I allow him to tip the aspirin into my open palm. Then he hands me the glass of water. “Drink.”

  I pop the aspirin into my mouth and swallow some of the water, then hold the glass out for him to take. He shakes his head.

  “Bossy,” I grumble, and gulp a few more swallows of water.

  When I hold out the glass this time, he takes it from my hand. He finishes what’s left in it, sets it on the bedside table, and removes his suit jacket. He drapes it over the chair he was sitting in, unfastens his cuff links, and rolls up his sleeves.

  Why do I find that so damn sexy?