Chapter 3

ESME

  The boutique is dead quiet when we step inside. Lorenzo planned this. He had completely taken over. Since my family basically owns every brick in this city, he made sure the store was cleared out for the entire day. The staff is lined up like soldiers, looking terrified because they know exactly who is coming.

  "Pick a dress." Lorenzo commands. "That one."

He doesn't bother looking at the racks; he just points at a few dresses, and the sales reps scramble to grab them.

  "I’m not a doll, Lorenzo," I snap, but I still go into the changing room. I know better than to argue when he has that look in his eye—the one that says he's the buyer and I'm the only thing on the menu.

  I step out in the first dress. It's a blood-red silk that clings to every curve. I feel like a model on a runway, and he is the only judge in the building.

  He sits there, legs crossed, watching me with a focus that makes my skin prickle.

  "Come here," he pats his thigh.

  I walk over. Before I can say anything, he reaches out, grabs my waist, and pulls me onto his thigh.

  I stiffen, but I don't stop as he buries his hand into the slit of the dress, his thumb tracing circles that make my breath hitch.

  "You look perfect. It’s a shame the 'special someone' is going to have to watch me watch you all night."

  I lean back, trying to look him in the eye. "You're insane. You know that, right?"

  "Maybe," he shrugs, his hand moving higher. "But you’re still here."

  I swallow hard, knowing perfectly well that fighting him now is just hypocritical. He wants me, and I want him just as much. It’s wrong, I know that. It’s a death sentence if Dad finds out, but it’s all too tempting.

  I should have planned better; if I had, I would be across the Atlantic by now.

  Lorenzo doesn't break eye contact as he clicks his fingers, signaling whoever is present to disappear.

  They vanish instantly.

  I’m suddenly very aware of how empty the boutique is. I start to pick at the loose threads of the dress. I can't stop my knee from bouncing against his leg.

  He notices. He always notices.

  "Stop moving," he murmurs, steadying my leg with a grip that's a little too firm to be a comfort.

  "We should go," I say. "Dinner is in a few hours."

  "You mean in nine hours from now?" he lifts a brow, leaning in until his lips are brushing against my earlobe. “It isn't time for the 'special someone' to have you yet."

  Think, think, think, think, think.

  Come up with an excuse or something.

  With all the pep talk, I'm still rooted to his lap.

  Then he enters. His fingers—two—graze the fabric of my panties before sliding in completely.

  I gasp, breathless, shutting my eyes.

  I can't look at him or he'll find a way to make my face heat up.

  He grabs my chin, pulling me closer.

  “Look at me.”

  I open my eyes to see him watching me with that calm, terrifying hunger, his fingers moving inside me with a slow rhythm that makes my knees go weak.

  "You’re going to sit at that dinner table tonight," he whispers, "and every time that boy touches your hand or looks at you, you’re going to remember exactly how you feel right now. You’re going to remember who really owns you."

  I try to find my voice, to tell him he’s a bastard, but all that comes out is a broken moan as he buries his fingers inside me.

  I clutch my thighs together, trapping his hand with them.

  “Who's the boy anyway?”

  I bite my lips.

  Ain't no way I'm telling him it's fake.

  The 'special someone' is just Julian, my best friend from college. I had to beg him to play the part of my boyfriend for just one night. I lied that Grandpa has been breathing down my neck for months, pressuring me to find a suitable guy from a good family, and I just needed the noise to stop.

  "Just a guy from school," I choke out, pushing myself into those two fingers torturing me down there. "His name is Julian. He’s... he’s everything you aren’t."

  Lorenzo’s eyes flash with something dark—not hurt, but a challenge.

  "Everything I'm not? You're trying too hard to make me jealous. It's becoming boring."

  “I'm serious; he's everything you're not.” I insist. It's pathetic, I know. I’m just throwing words at him.

  Suddenly, he pulls me up, springing out of his chair. I hold my breath, thinking it's over, until he shoves me back onto the seat. He spreads my legs so fast I have no time to even think about closing them.

  "L-Lorenzo, w-what are you doing? We’re not alone!"

  He ignores me, sinking his face in between my thighs. My hands fly to the armrests.

  "If he's everything I'm not, then he won't know how to make you shake like this."

  I let out a broken sob as his tongue finds me. It’s direct, like he’s proving a point rather than trying to be sweet.

  I hate that he's right. I hate that I'm arching my back to give him better access. Julian is a nice guy, a safe guy, but he’s never made my blood feel like it’s boiling over.

  My hips buckle as I tremble in the chair; I'm afraid it might break.

  Lorenzo isn't slowing down, flicking my clit with his tongue, teasing me like he’s trying to drive me insane.

  “Lorenzo...” I moan, tangling my fingers in his hair, digging my nails into his scalp. “What if Dad finds out?”

  He pulls his head back. “Don't start.”

  Then he gets right back to it, his lips locking onto me all over my sensitive skin, sucking me clean with a hunger that makes my vision go white.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t think.

  All I can do is arch my back as a massive wave of heat crashes through me. I’m sobbing into the silence, my body completely giving up as he drinks me in.

  By the time he finally pulls away, I’m slumped in the chair, my legs like lead.

  He stands up, wipes his mouth with a thumb, his gaze fixed on me.

  God.

  Why?

  He shouldn't have been part of my family.

  He should have been a stranger. He should have been a stranger I met in college, or maybe someone I bumped into at a coffee shop—one of those "love at first sight" stories that normal people have. We should have been two people with nothing connecting us but a spark.

  But no. He’s the boy Grandpa took in as a son. Even if he’s adopted, he’s still family—the "Uncle" I grew up with, the one who knows every secret in this house and every dark corner of our business. My dad hates his guts yet trusts him with my life.

  And here I am, shaking in a red dress because he’s the only person who can make me feel alive and terrified at the same time.

  "Stop thinking, Esme," he snaps me out of it. “I've told you I’ll handle your father. Let me worry. All you have to do is stop fighting. It's pointless. You want this more than I do.”