I slam the book I’m reading closed and rest it on my stomach. I’m so restless. Golden eyes torment me, a deep, raspy voice talking over reading the words in my head.
After licking the ice cream off my finger last night, I gave an excuse about being tired and ran out of the kitchen. The tension had been so taut it felt like an explosion was about to go off if I didn’t get myself out of there.
With every passing day, I feel my resolve weakening. I spend the day alone, occupied by nothing other than thoughts of Thiago and looking forward to the brief moments we share when the staff has gone to bed and the night leaves us as just a man and a woman, alone.
At this point, it’s solely my pride and morals keeping me from giving in. I’m so desperate for release that my mood is impacted. I’m more prone to frustration, to anger, over the littlest things.
I’ve lived my entire life in the shadow of a violent man and I balk at the thought of tying myself to another, especially one exponentially more dangerous. But something about him calls to me, refusing to be ignored.
I know he’s home, I stood at the window in my room and watched him walk in earlier, but he didn’t come find me and I didn’t go to him.
My restlessness changes that, driving me out of my bedroom to go in search of my husband. Exhilaration buzzes like static electricity on my skin. He’s not in his study or his bedroom, so I head downstairs. I’m about to go towards the kitchen when something tells me to check the library instead.
The door is slightly ajar. I push it open. The room is warm and inviting, with luxurious rugs in red and brown tones covering every inch of the floor. The walls are outfitted with vintage bookshelves, each full to bursting with books. The soft, golden lighting makes me think of Thiago’s eyes.
The man in question is sitting in an expensive leather chair, settled deep into it with his legs spread. A lowball glass of clear liquid hovers near his lips as his eyes find mine over the rim. I’ve seen him drink it before but have never asked what it was.
“Is that tequila?”
He shakes his head, his enigmatic eyes following me as I close the door behind me. “Aguardiente.”
“What is that?”
A slow smirk pulls at his mouth. He drinks the remaining ounce of liquid in one go. I’m hypnotized by the way his throat works as he swallows, by the way his tongue rolls over his lips. A powerful ache pulsates in my core.
He sets the glass down before flicking his eyes back up to me. “Why don’t you come have a taste?”
Arousal lurches into my veins with the force of a tsunami. How is he so effortlessly dominant and attractive? Categorically male in a way I didn’t think I’d ever like.
His head slowly reclines back against his chair as I approach, his eyes tracking me with dark, focused intensity. The alcohol glistens on his lips, illuminated by the subdued lighting above him. There’s a loud voice pulling at me to lick it off. The daring look he gives me throws that same challenge down between us like a gauntlet.
Disappointment flashes in his eyes when I pick up his empty glass and pour myself a shot instead. I hate the way I immediately want to correct my behavior, hate how important it suddenly is to me to see that pleased look back in his eye.
But it is.
Bringing the glass up to my lips, I run my tongue along the entire rim, searching for his taste. Staring into his eyes the entire time I do so.
The air is so taut between us, it’s hard to breathe. And when his eyes completely haze over with lust like a thunderous fog rolling through his pupils, my stomach contracts painfully.
Finally, I take a sip and the liquid burns my throat. The brief pain is a welcome distraction from the desire pulsing in my pussy for this man. It allows me a moment of reprieve, of shaking my head to rid myself of these dizzying thoughts.
“Black liquorice,” I note, surprised. “Like my perfume.”
He nods, eyes locked on my lips. “Now you see why I’ve been hooked on you from the beginning.”
Thiago looks at me like he did through FaceTime when I was in Rome, with eyes so intense they’re almost suffocating. That singular look has me balancing on a tightrope of emotion with precipitous drops on either side. On the one hand, his clear obsession with me is riveting and intoxicating. On the other, can I trust that his intensity won’t one day translate into actual violence towards me outside the bedroom?
I take another sip, really tasting the aguardiente now. Immediately, I start coughing.
Wincing, I say. “I like how it sits on the tongue, but I see why it’s called ‘burning water’. It’s fiery going down.”
Another smile pulls at his lips and I light up on the inside like a kid who just got a gold star from her teacher. “Your Spanish is better than you intimated to Diana.”
“Forget you know that, I need to be able to listen in on your conversations without you censoring yourself.”
He chuckles softly, taking the glass from me and drinking. “It’s a Colombian liquor. My favorite.”
“Of course you’d drink something that moody,” I note, getting distracted by the way his black shirt stretches across his chest. His defined shoulders tighten the band of fabric around his chiseled arms. Masculinity rolls off him in confident waves. He’s a master at seduction even when stationary, even when he’s not even trying.
It’s distracting.
Maddening.
“It’s my father’s drink of choice. I grew up having it with him on our terrace while he taught me everything about the business.” He swirls the liquid around in the bottom of the glass, a thoughtful look taking his gaze somewhere faraway. “I think of him every time I have some.”
“Is he…”
He looks up at me, understanding my unasked question. “He’s still alive. He lives back home in Bogotá.”
Envy fills me at the fondness with which he speaks about his dad. Clearly they have a close relationship, even with the distance. When I ran away, my father made no attempts to even try and contact me. He hasn’t reached out now that I’m back and he knows I’m married.
“I’ll take you there one day and show you where I’m from. Show you the city that made your husband the way he is, amor.”
The pace of my heartbeat is unnatural, its cadence far faster than what the rest of my body can seemingly keep up with.
Thiago points at the bottle of aguardiente. “What’s the verdict? Do you like it?”
Maybe it’s because of the way he looks at me, or maybe it’s the alcohol or even this entire sexually-tense moment between us. Whatever the reason, something loosens my tongue and makes me say, “At first sip, yes. But it’s hard to confirm without tasting it on the skin.”
He doesn’t immediately react.
Then his brow quirks. “What do you mean?”
“I know you didn’t go to uni so you really can’t be blamed for not knowing this, but the biggest lesson I learned there is that alcohol tastes better when done as a body shot.”
It’s a lie. I spent my time at Cambridge and Wharton with my head firmly in my books, studying and stressing over exams. The closest I’ve come to a body shot is spilling tequila on myself when someone bumped into me and licking the stickiness off my forearm.
But desire emboldens me to foolish heights.
And when he stands, his tall body unfurling to his full height above me, that desire spreads like wildfire throughout my entire body. He’s so close that I need to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. I’m about to speak when he grabs his t-shirt by the collar and effortlessly removes it, stealing the words from my throat in the process.
Hissing out a breath, my gaze drops to the golden, tattoo-covered muscles rippling under the dim lighting. It’s like he’s been lit by a professional crew with state of the art equipment, every sinewy muscle of his looking carved to perfection.
I’ve seen him shirtless but never this close with this clear an opportunity to examine him. Dark tattoos of passion and anger and war artfully cover his entire torso. He’s built but lean, power exuding effortlessly off him without needing to rely on physical intimidation. Saliva pools in my mouth just watching him.
He’s magnificent.
Chiseled.
My fingers twitch by my side, longing to run through and trace those very visible grooves.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring.
I’m afraid I’d be mortified if I knew because when I finally look up into Thiago’s face, amusement curls his lips.
“If this is what you look like when you’re disgusted, I can’t wait to see the expression on your face when I sink inside your tight pussy.”
Before I can answer he bends at the knees and slowly lowers himself to the floor. He lays on his back, his arms crossed underneath his head. In this position, the muscles of his lower abdomen constrict and emphasize the defined V lines that disappear into his trousers.
I rip my gaze away from his stomach before I give in to every destructive urge I’ve been resisting since I walked into this room and do something stupid like pull his cock out of his trousers and suck him into my mouth.
It’s too late to try and walk this back, but I attempt anyway. “I wasn’t talking about doing a body shot off you. I meant it generally.”
He chuckles again, the sound both warm and infuriating, but his eyes flash in warning.
“You need to be put in your place.”
“And where is that?” I ask flippantly.
He licks his lips, drawing my attention down to his mouth.
“Tied up in my bed.”
My pussy clenches at the warning in his words. He’s fifty percent playful but a hundred percent serious.
He reaches for the bottle on the side table and uncaps it. I watch, frozen, as he looks down at his stomach and pours a line of the clear liquor into his navel. I can barely swallow around the large mass in my throat.
“What are you waiting for?” he asks, the challenge clear in his tone. “Get on your knees.”
