Page 13 of Bound in Obsession
The silk parts with a soft, obscene rip. The sound fills the quiet room. Cool air kisses my collarbone, then the top of my breast as the bodice splits open inch by inch. His eyes stay locked on mine the entire time, dark and intense, daring me to look away. Mybreath comes faster. My nipples tighten against the fabric of my bra, traitorous and hypersensitive.
He doesn’t grope me. Doesn’t touch me more than necessary. He simply destroys the dress with deliberate, controlled movements, the blade never breaking skin.
I stand frozen as the ruined dress hangs open to my belly button. My chest rises and falls too fast, the lace of my strapless bra the only thing left covering my chest. I should cross my arms. I should cover myself. But I refuse. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me shrink.
So I lift my chin and stare straight into his eyes. “Are you done?”
He doesn’t answer. His hooded gaze drags slowly from my breasts, up my throat, and stops on the Caruso heirloom necklace resting against my collarbone. His expression hardens, a dark scowl pulling at his brow like the sight of it personally offends him.
He pockets the knife, then reaches up. His fingers brush the side of my neck as he unclips the necklace. The contact is barely there, just the rough pads of his fingertips against my skin, but it hits me like lightning. A hot, electric jolt shoots straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly and making my thighs clench. My breath hitches audibly. For one traitorous second, I feel that touch everywhere.
The heavy emerald and gold slides free and drops to the floor between us with a soft clink.
Before I can react, his hand curls around my throat. Not choking, just firm enough that I feel the controlled strength in his fingers. My pulse hammers wildly against his palm. Heat floods my body, a confusing, terrifying mix of fear and something darker, something that makes me want him to tighten his grip and my nipples tighten painfully against the lace. I hate how aware I am of him. Of his woody scent. Of the way his thumb rests just below my jaw like he owns the beat of my heart.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, thumb brushing once over my racing pulse. “and I might start thinking you enjoy this.” He smirks. “Perhaps you do.” He squeezes harder. “Does this make you wet?”
The words sink under my skin like hooks. Reality slams back into me. And before I can stop myself, I spit in his face.
As the glob lands on his cheek, I immediately realize what a stupid thing I’ve done, and I brace myself for the slap, a kick, for whatever violence men like him unleash when their ego is bruised.
Instead, Nico laughs.
A low, dark, unhinged sound that fills the room. It’s not warm. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you wonder if the man has lost his mind. He wipes the spit off his cheek with the back of his hand, still chuckling, eyes gleaming with something feral as he looks at me.
I hate myself for the way my stomach flutters at the sound of his laughter. Because it shouldn’t sound like that. It shouldn’t make me want to hear it again.
He turns and walks out without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stand there long after the door clicks shut behind him, chest heaving, skin still burning where his fingers wrapped around my throat. I look down at myself, the ruined wedding dress, bruises already blooming on my arms and wrists. My body is a goddamn war zone, and yet…
Heat still pulses low in my belly. My nipples are tight against the lace of my bra. My thighs press together like they’re trying to trap the unwanted ache his touch left behind. I’m aroused. Confused. Furious at myself for feeling anything but pure hatred for the man who just ripped my dress open like a barbarian.
“Fuck you, Nico Lombardi,” I whisper to the empty room.
I huff out a shaky breath and drop onto the edge of the massive bed. The ruined silk pools around my hips.
A soft knock sounds on the door. Before I can tell whoever it is to go away, it opens. A young woman steps inside, maybe my age, maybe a couple years older, carrying a stack of folded clothes. She’s pretty, dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail, dressed in simple black blouse and skirt.
“Mr. Lombardi sent me to bring you some clothes and?—”
“Tell Mr. Lombardi to go fuck himself,” I snap, cutting her off.
She blinks, clearly startled. “I’m sorry but?—”
I stand up, the torn dress slipping lower on my body. “You can take those clothes and shove them up his ass for all I care. I’m not accepting anything from him. Now get out.”
She hesitates for a second, eyes flicking over my half-naked, disheveled state, then gives a small nod and backs out, closing the door quietly behind her.
The room falls silent again.
I slump back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling with its fancy moldings and soft lighting. How long am I going to be Nico Lombardi’s prisoner?
Days? Weeks? Months?
I need to find a way out of this place.
CHAPTER SIX
