I take extra time preparing for dinner, slipping into a light, flowing chiffon maxi dress that dips a bit lower in the front than my usual attire, with delicate straps crossing over my back and tiny flowers scattered across the white fabric. It feels sweet, feminine, and flattering without being too overt—I hope—and I apply a touch of makeup. Already flushed from the sun, I skip foundation and opt for a rose gold eyeshadow, mascara, and a light stain on my lips. I add rose gold diamond studs to my ears. Styling my thick, long hair takes the most time; it tends to be unruly, but I manage to braid it, wrapping it around my head and securing it.

My heart races as I think about Angelo's reaction when he sees me, hoping to glimpse the desire I saw earlier. What was he imagining? It couldn't have been me—he's been clear that he doesn't want me right now. It's on me to change his mind. Yet, a pang of jealousy twists in my stomach at the thought of him fantasizing about someone else—perhaps some girl from New York. The idea of him picturing another woman between his legs or on his lap stings. I know he's been with others—he must have been—but the thought bothers me deeply.


I want him to feel that way about me. I want him to hate the idea of me with someone else—kissing them, touching them, letting them do all the other things to me that I can't even quite imagine yet. I want him to be just as jealous of me—not trying to find someone to pawn me off on so he can be freed of the responsibility. I know that's not entirely fair to think, but I can't help it.

It feels like too much to hope that I might be able to make him love me—but wanting me, even being convinced to go along with my father's will and marry me… seems possible.

Angelo is already waiting at the dinner table when I come down, a glass of wine in front of him. He's scrolling through something on his phone, but he quickly sets it down when he hears my footsteps—and for one brief second, as his gaze sweeps over me, I think I see the startled flicker of desire that I hoped for. His eyes sweep from my face downwards, catching on my cleavage for a moment and then sweeping lower, all the way to where the skirt sweeps my toes and back up. I don't know if he even entirely means to do it—I see the way he quickly swallows, his gaze darting away as he reaches for his glass of wine. There's a decanter on the table as well, and an empty glass in front of where my place is set.


'I don't know if you were allowed to have wine," Angelo says, clearing his throat as I sit down. There's a tension in him that I haven't seen before, and I wonder if it's because of what he did in his office today, or because of the way he looked at me just now, or something else altogether. 'But I think considering everything that's happened recently, whether or not you have a glass is the least of our concerns."

Something in me is slightly miffed at the idea of Angelo deciding whether or not I'm allowed to have a drink—that it's his business at all. I reach for the decanter without a word, pouring myself half a glass, and one of Angelo's eyebrows rises.


'I suppose that's my answer, then."

'My father didn't treat me like a child." I pick up the glass of wine, taking a pointed sip, making sure to let my lips linger on the edge for just a moment. I want him to notice, but his attention is dragged away by the salad course being brought in.

'I don't think of you as a child," Angelo says firmly, as the china salad bowls are set in front of us, and he reaches for his fork. 'But you are my ward. My responsibility. I want to make all of this as simple as it can be for you—for things to change as little as possible. For there to be as little—upheaval as I can manage for you."

'My father died, and I'm going to be married off to a stranger." I take another sip of the wine, feeling my appetite fade a little as I look down at the Caesar salad in front of me. 'I think it's a bit late to be trying to minimize upheaval."

'Point taken." Angelo lets out a slow breath, picking up his own glass again. 'I want you to know that I, personally, am in no rush. I would stay here as long as necessary to make sure that you were safe and protected, and that your future was secured and happy. It's the Family that may put pressure on both you and me sooner rather than later. It's important to me that you know that."

I nod, tracing my fingers nervously up and down the stem of my wine glass. The conversation isn't going exactly how I had hoped it would. I want to flirt with him, arouse him, and make him think about being the one to marry me, but the problem is that I don't know how to flirt. I don't think any of the tactics I've read about in books work all that well in real life, if I had to guess, and I've never had any experience with actual men. My encounters with men have been limited to Enzo and meeting my father's associates at dinner parties, and none of them would have ever dared so much as look at me with any kind of intent.

'How was your day?" I blurt out, before I can think too hard about what it is that I'm going to say. 'After our conversation, I mean. How was, um—how was work?"

I catch his slight flinch, the way he chokes a little on his sip of wine, trying quickly to hide it. My pulse speeds up, remembering the sight of him in the office today, hand wrapped firmly around himself, head tipped back, lips parted on a silent moan of pleasure. I feel my cheeks flush, and Angelo seems to take notice of that, at least.

'Are you alright? You seem a little flustered." His voice drops an octave, and it makes me think that he's getting a little flustered, too. I can feel the tension thickening, and I wonder if he's aware of it, too.

'It's just been a long day." I've barely touched my salad, but that course is already being whisked away in preparation for the staff to bring in the main course. I reach for my wine glass again, my other hand curled into a fist in my lap, short nails digging into my palm. 'It was nice to get outside for a little while—go for a swim, lay in the sun." I watch his face as I speak, curiously, and sure enough—I see the tiniest twitch at the side of his mouth, a tightening of his lips that makes my heart leap in my chest.

Was he—watching me? The idea sends a thrill through my blood, fizzing like fine champagne. I hadn't thought of that possibility—that his office window, which does face directly out to the pool, provided him with an excellent view of what I had spent part of my afternoon doing—and of me, wearing very little.

My mouth goes dry at the thought that I might have been the cause of his arousal. That he might have seen me and gotten so turned on, so hard, that he couldn't help but get himself off right there, in his office, where anyone could have seen. Where I saw.

I lick my lips, shifting in my chair as I squeeze my thighs together as discreetly as I can, feeling that building pressure again. Is he feeling it, too? My mind races with lewd possibilities, that he's getting hard right now, thinking about this afternoon, imagining me in that tiny bathing suit that I wore out to the pool. I have another sudden flash of imagination—slipping to my knees under the dinner table, sliding his zipper down and freeing his aching cock, wrapping my hand around it and my lips over the tip, taking him into my mouth as he sits there and eats his meal, all the while being serviced by my lips and tongue.

The ache between my thighs intensifies at the thought, the pressure building, throbbing, and my hand tightens in my lap. What is wrong with you? I had a crush on Angelo before, but I never imagined dropping to my knees for him twice in one day, sweetly and submissively tending to his needs while he goes about his day. Why does it turn me on so much?

I wish I understood. I wish I knew anything at all about any of this—and I wish I had someone to ask. But the only person who can answer my questions won't—and if my suspicions are true, it's because he wants the same things I do.

Which begs the question that rattles around in my head as I sit there across the table from him, trying to eat lamb chops and green beans instead of thinking about his cock in my mouth—

Why won't he marry me, then?