Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 93347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
And that didn’t include dragging Sabrina to Italy against her will…at least, not yet.
I pulled up to the private entrance of the Hotel Shangri-La, reserved exclusively for their most elite clientele. After waving the valet off, I carefully lifted Sabrina into my arms. She made a soft, kittenish sound, nuzzling her cheek against my shoulder.
A porter rushed ahead to press the elevator button for the terrace penthouse suite. I held her close as we stepped inside, her delicate perfume filling the confined space.
She stirred, a soft moan slipping past her lips as her back arched instinctively. “The room is spinning.”
“Shhh, mia piccola. I’ll have you safe and warm in a minute.”
Her eyes stayed closed, her brow furrowing in adorable defiance. “You’re lying.”
I tightened my grasp.
A Diamanti security guard nodded as I approached, swiping the suite’s key card to open the door without a word. I paid them not to ask questions.
Traveling with guards was a necessary inconvenience of my lifestyle. I didn’t like being shadowed, but it wasn’t my person they usually needed to protect. It was my cargo.
Thieves assumed diamond merchants traveled with diamonds. They’d be correct. Stored in my suite were several million euros' worth of diamonds I’d brought from Italy for private deals in Paris.
Diamonds were the world’s currency—portable, untraceable, and universally valuable.
CEOs and warlords alike valued their glittering weight. I’d met both in the same afternoon, and neither surprised me anymore.
Diamonds didn’t discriminate.
Soft light illuminated the lavish sitting area, a blend of cream, china blue, and gold. With Sabrina held close, I carefully made my way through the elegant furniture to the main bedroom. Although the suite had a guest room, I carried her straight to my bed.
I placed her on the edge of the mattress, removing her coat before she fell back against the plush duvet.
Kneeling, I slipped off her gold heels. A flash of anger ripped through me. She was damn lucky she hadn’t broken an ankle hobbling around in these ridiculous five-inch stilettos in her state.
Swinging her legs onto the bed, I shrugged out of my coat and stared down at her.
My prize.
Her dark curls gleamed against the crisp white bedcover, a vivid contrast to her flushed skin. Although slight in height, her body was a masterpiece of soft, feminine curves.
I loved a woman with curves.
It was a hazard of my profession that gaunt, hollow-eyed women with protruding hipbones and sharp edges perpetually surrounded me. That look never appealed to me. I liked a woman who could fill my hands with soft, warm flesh, a woman with passion for life, for me, for food and wine.
I grazed the backs of my fingers over her cheek.
Fuck, she was beautiful.
Her delicate features, the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts—everything about her invited me closer. Even the dark sweep of her thick lashes, concealing those sapphire eyes that sparked with so much fire when she was awake, called to me.
It would be so easy to wake her with the thrust of my cock.
I traced the curve of her thigh, the soft fabric of her embroidered vest a delicate barrier under my palm.
Would she surrender willingly, wrapping her legs around my hips with abandon?
Or would she fight me, wild and fierce?
Blood rushed to my cock as my mind conjured the latter.
I imagined flipping her onto her stomach, forcing her to her knees, her silky hair wrapped tightly around my fist. I’d thrust into her from behind, holding her steady as her back arched, feeling the curve of her ass pressing against me.
I’d fuck her like an animal, without remorse, without hesitation, without morals.
My fingers lingered over her embroidered vest, savoring the way she’d obeyed my order to wear the lace shirt beneath it. As much as I appreciated her compliance, the fabric robbed me of a glimpse of her breasts.
My hand drifted over her stomach. Was her navel pierced? No, I couldn’t imagine her defying her overprotective mother that way.
At least, I hoped not.
I wanted the pleasure of ordering her to pierce her belly—and her nipples. My plan was to bedeck my bride in diamonds.
But a necklace or bracelets weren’t good enough. Not permanent enough. I wanted her to feel the pain of my ownership, the intimacy of it. I wanted to see her flesh marked as mine.
She would be my living trophy, a testament to my dominance—and my victory over her father.
I unbuckled my belt and slipped it off, running my hand along the smooth leather.
Would my little innocent respond to my rougher tastes in bed?
Would it stop me if she didn’t?
She would be my wife, under my control.
The very idea that this sweet creature, lying prone and defenseless before me, would—after a few hollow vows and a priest’s blessing—become mine to command, to shape, to own, thrilled me. Because once the world called her my wife, she’d never be anything else again.