I'm bent over Alessandro's lap like some Victorian maiden who fainted at the sight of an ankle, except significantly more aware of exactly how screwed I am.
And not in the fun way.
Well. Maybe a little in the fun way, given the heat pooling in my belly despite my current position of extreme vulnerability.
"Alessandro—" I try again, because apparently I have a death wish and also zero survival instincts. "Can you at least tell me what you're planning to—"
"No."
That's it. Just "no." Like he's declining an offer of tea instead of holding me captive across his thighs while I wait for whatever punishment he's devised.
His hand rests on the small of my back—warm, heavy, possessive—and I'm hyperaware of every point of contact between us. The solid muscle of his thighs beneath me. The way my pulse hammers against his knee. The fact that I can feel his—
Focus, Sof. Wrong time for anatomical observations.
"At least tell me if this is going to hurt," I try, and my voice comes out smaller than intended.
"That depends entirely on you."
Super helpful. Very reassuring. I feel so much better now.
I hear the soft whisper of leather sliding free—his belt—and my breath catches. He doesn't say anything, just pulls my wrists together behind my back with methodical precision and binds them with the belt.
The leather is warm from his body, and somehow that detail makes everything worse. Or better. I can't decide.
"Alessandro—"
"Shh." His other hand slides up my thigh, pushing my skirt higher, and I shiver. "You had your chance to talk. In the car. You chose silence. So now it's my turn."
I try very hard not to point out that he deliberately told me to keep quiet in the car. I’m in no position to fight him right now.
His palm smooths over my bare thigh—slow, deliberate, almost gentle—and despite everything, heat blooms under his touch.
Traitor body. We're supposed to be panicking right now.
"Tell me something, Sofia." His voice is conversational, like we're discussing the weather instead of whatever fresh hell this is. "Do you think this is appropriate behavior for a maid?"
I open my mouth. Close it. "I don't—"
"First you were watching Dante Caruso during that match. Eyes glued to him like he was the most fascinating thing you'd ever seen." His hand continues its torturous path along my thigh. "And now secret meetings with strange men in parking lots."
"As I’ve said, Tommy isn't strange, he's—"
"You're my maid." The possessiveness in his voice makes my skin prickle. "Mine. And yet you're sneaking around, lying to me, meeting other men. Aren't you embarrassing me?"
His fingers trace patterns on my inner thigh now, achingly close to where I desperately need them but not quite there. The combination of his words and his touch is making my brain short-circuit.
"I wasn't trying to embarrass you," I manage, my voice breathy and unsteady. "It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?"
I don't have an answer. Can't have an answer without revealing everything.
Alessandro's hand slides higher, and I bite back a gasp. I can feel him against my hip—hard, unmistakable proof that whatever anger he's feeling, there's desire mixed in too.
The realization sends heat flooding through me in a way that should probably concern me more than it does.
"Let me ask you something else." His palm cups my ass through my underwear, and I squirm involuntarily. "Do you think they can pleasure you like I can? Those other men you're apparently so eager to meet?"
"That's not—" My protest dies as his hand comes down—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that I feel it everywhere. "Oh god—"
"Answer the question, Sofia." Another spank, slightly harder, and warmth blooms across my skin. "Do you think Dante Caruso could make you feel like this?"
"No!" The word bursts out, desperate and honest. "No, he couldn't—"
"What about Tommy?" Another strike, and I'm writhing on his lap now, caught between embarrassment and arousal. "Could he give you anything even remotely similar to what I do?"
"No," I gasp out, my hips rolling forward seeking friction. "No one can. Just you. Only you."
"That's right." His voice is rough with satisfaction. "Only me."
His fingers slip beneath my underwear, sliding through my slick heat, and I moan into the bedspread.
"Look how wet you are," he murmurs, almost reverent. "From being spanked like a naughty girl. From being held down and questioned. Your body knows who it belongs to, even if you seem to keep forgetting."
"I haven't forgotten," I manage between gasps as his fingers circle my clit with maddening precision. "I just—Alessandro, please—"
"Please what?" Two fingers slide inside me, curling just right, and my vision goes white at the edges. "Tell me what you need, bella."
"You. I need you. Please don't stop—"
He doesn't. His thumb finds my clit while his fingers work inside me with devastating efficiency, and within seconds I'm falling apart across his lap—back arching, thighs trembling, crying out his name like a prayer and a curse combined.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves, leaving me boneless and gasping.
Before I can fully recover, Alessandro maneuvers me with surprising gentleness—untying my wrists, shifting me so I'm straddling his lap facing him. His eyes are almost black with hunger, his control hanging by a visible thread.
"Hi," I say stupidly, still catching my breath.
His laugh is low and rough. "Hi yourself."
Then his mouth is on mine—claiming, possessive, stealing whatever breath I'd managed to recover. I kiss back with equal desperation, hands fisting in his shirt, grinding down against the hard length of him.
"Sofia—" He breaks the kiss, forehead resting against mine. "Are you sure about this?"
Despite everything—despite the lies and the mission and the absolute catastrophe my life has become—I've never been more certain of anything.
"Yes. Please. I need—"
He lifts me slightly, freeing himself from his pants, and then his hands are guiding my hips, positioning me. I sink down slowly, and the stretch is overwhelming in the best possible way.
We both freeze, breathing hard.
"Okay?" His voice is strained with the effort of staying still.
"More than okay." I roll my hips experimentally, and his grip on my waist tightens. "Move. Please move."
He does—slow, careful, achingly tender despite the charge between us. His hands guide my movements while his mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping my pulse point.
"You feel incredible," he murmurs against my throat. "Perfect. Like you were made for me."
I should protest the possessive language. Should maintain some distance.
Instead, I ride him harder, chasing the pleasure building in my core, and when I come apart again with his name on my lips, he follows—holding me tight, face buried in my shoulder, completely undone.
We stay like that for a long moment—tangled together, breathing hard, the reality of what just happened settling over us like a weighted blanket.
Finally, Alessandro pulls back enough to look at me, his hand cupping my face with surprising gentleness.
"You're mine now," he says quietly. "No taking it back. Understand?"
I should argue. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember this is temporary.
Instead, I nod.
Because somewhere between the rules and the games and the absolutely catastrophic life choices, something fundamental shifted.
And I'm terrified there's no shifting it back.