"I don't need any of that," he rasped, his tone demanding. "You’re the only medicine that can cure me." His arm tightened even more around her waist, as if he were unwilling to let her go—unwilling to let her move even an inch away from him.Rosa didn't flinch at his strength. Instead, she brushed her fingers over his cheek, her eyes soft as she looked at him. "I am right here, and I am yours, Mr. Mancini," she whispered with a tenderness so convincing it felt real.Mancini closed his eyes for a second, drinking in her submission. He loved this—the version of her that didn't fight, the version that belonged only to him. In that moment, he wanted the world to stop; he never wanted this version of her to change."Call me Luciano, Rosie," he demanded, the rough stubble of his cheek grazing hers in a possessive caress. "Your Luciano."Her first instinct was to let her eyes widen in shock. This was a level of intimacy, so romantic, she hadn’t expected. Nothing about the arrangement between
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