Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
I open my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that should frighten me but somehow doesn't. His hand cradles my face now, strong and sure, and I feel anchored by his touch rather than threatened.
"More?" he asks, and I understand he's giving me control, letting me set the pace and boundaries of whatever this is becoming.
"Yes," I breathe.
He shifts closer, still kneeling before me, his free hand coming to rest lightly on my knee. "I can stop anytime," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Just say the word."
"I know."
And I do know, with a certainty that surprises me. This dangerous man, this former criminal with blood on his hands, would stop instantly if I asked. Would never push past my boundaries, never take what I didn't freely give.
It's an intoxicating kind of safety.
His hand on my knee slides upward, just slightly, warm through the fabric of my pants. "What do you want me to do, Kleah?"
The question—direct, honest, empowering—sends a shiver through me. "I don't know," I admit. "I've never..."
Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Never?"
I shake my head, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "No."
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, yes, but also a fierce kind of tenderness I wouldn't have expected. "Then we go slowly," he says, his voice gentle but certain. "Only what feels right to you."
His hand moves from my face to my hair, fingers threading through the strands with careful appreciation. "So soft," he murmurs.
The simple touch sends warmth cascading through me, a pleasure so pure and uncomplicated it takes me by surprise. No one has ever touched me like this—with reverence, with attention, with absolute presence.
"Gabriele," I whisper, his name a question and an answer all at once.
"I'm here." His eyes hold mine, steady and sure. "Right here with you."
His hand on my knee moves slightly, a question in the touch. I nod, granting permission, and he slides it higher, fingers tracing patterns through the fabric of my pants. Nothing demanding, nothing frightening—just connection, just warmth.
"I want to show you something different," he says quietly. "If you'll let me."
"Yes," I breathe, the word barely audible.
He leans forward, slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. His lips brush my forehead, a touch so gentle it's almost not there. Then my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
"May I kiss you properly?" he asks, his breath warm against my skin.
Instead of answering, I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to his in a gesture of trust that surprises us both.
The kiss is tender, unhurried—a meeting rather than a taking. His lips are warm, firm, moving against mine with careful attention. No demand, no pressure, just the sweet exploration of something new.
When he pulls back, I feel dazed, my heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
"Okay?" he asks, studying my face.
"More than okay," I whisper.
A smile touches his lips, transforming his face into something so beautiful it makes my breath catch. "Good."
His hands frame my face now, thumbs stroking my cheeks with gentle appreciation. "You're exquisite," he murmurs. "Perfect."
The words send a flush of heat through me, a pleasure that's as much emotional as physical. No one has ever looked at me the way he does now—as if I'm precious, as if I'm worth cherishing.
"I want..." I start, then falter, unsure how to ask for what I don't fully understand.
"Tell me," he encourages, voice low and gentle. "Anything."
"I want to feel good," I admit, the words barely a whisper. "To know what it's supposed to be like."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by something darker, more primal. "I can give you that," he says, voice rough with restraint. "If you're sure."
"I'm sure."
He studies me for a long moment, as if memorizing every detail of my face. Then, with deliberate care, he rises to his feet, extending his hand to me.
"Not here," he says. "Somewhere more comfortable."
I take his hand, letting him lead me from the library to a part of the house I haven't explored—the west wing, his territory. We pass through an elegant sitting room to a doorway that must lead to his bedroom.
He pauses there, turning to me. "Are you certain, Kleah? We can stop right now, no explanation needed."
The consideration in his voice, the genuine concern in his eyes, confirms what I already know: I trust this man. Despite everything, despite the suddenness of this connection, I trust him in a way I've never trusted anyone.
"I'm certain," I say, meeting his gaze directly. "I want this. I want you."
Something flashes in his eyes—hunger, yes, but also something deeper, more complex. "Then come with me," he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.
His bedroom is spacious but not ostentatious, dominated by a large bed with simple, elegant lines. The colors are neutral—grays and blues and warm woods—the overall effect one of masculine sophistication without showiness.