expanded after her words died away. Then he inhaled. “So you haven’t been pampered and coddled, mia bella unica?”
She swallowed past the sudden barbed tightness in her throat.
That kindness. When she’d thought it an impossibility. It was probably her imagination. Maybe a glitch in the line.
But she hadn’t imagined him calling her his unique beauty. “Your view of my life isn’t just rosy, it’s fluorescent fuchsia.”
She expected him to laugh his hardest this time. And again, he did the last thing she expected him to do.
His tone became a gentle stroke, smoothing her frayed nerves, soothing her rawness. “I stand corrected. But your parents have a lot to answer for. You were born for pampering and coddling.”
She almost snorted. “No, thank you. I’m glad they didn’t agree with you. I would have grown up a thoughtless, useless brat.”
“Pampering and coddling don’t have to mean spoiling. Used right, by firm, loving parents, they can be fortifying, nurturing, stabilizing. There’s nothing better to contribute to the development of a balanced character and the maintenance of a healthy psyche.”
She almost blurted out And what would you know about that?
She burrowed back into the mattress with relief that the words hadn’t exited her lips. He would have taken them in the worst way possible, and she would have felt even worse.
She meant only to marvel at his insight into something he hadn’t experienced. But then again, she shouldn’t wonder. His uncanny knowledge of the mechanisms that made humans tick was behind his almost frightening success.
He was going on. “But your parents decided it the best course of action to be tough on you, so instead of a thoughtless, useless brat, you’ve grown up a merciless, shameless siren.”
After another silent beat, she sat up. “Hello? Are you taking another call? Shall I wait on the line until you finish talking to whomever it is you just called all those far-fetched things?”
“You see? Shameless.” Before she could answer, he went on. “But since you’re not untidy, why is your room a mess?”
Dio, the man forgot nothing, couldn’t be distracted. Figured.
She gave in. “Because it hasn’t seen a coat of paint in over fifteen years. Name any sign you can imagine of long neglect in such an old building, and it’s here. Distintegrating wood paneling, leaking ceiling and peeling paint, just to mention the surface stuff.”
An edge entered his voice. “The rest of the palace is in good condition. How is it possible your living quarters haven’t been given priority in maintenance and renovations?”
“My living quarters aren’t part of the national monument area of the palace.”
“You’re the princess of Castaldini.” He sounded indignant.
“You should see the king’s quarters.”
The silence lengthened beyond her ability to bear it this time. Especially when she could almost hear that warp-speed mind of his streaking to conclusions. It was another thing to prove how much Castaldini needed him.
At last he inhaled. Then, after a long pause, slowly exhaled. The nuances of the sounds didn’t transmit male awareness and triumph this time, but contemplation, deliberation, and if she could possibly believe it, thoughtfulness, consideration. It seemed her sensory capacity had converged on her sense of hearing. She was picking up more through his breathing and tones than from his words. And whether she was picking up right or wrong, it moved her, messed up her insides. Then—of course—he made it far worse.
“What are you wearing, Clarissa?”
His whisper, the total unexpectedness of the question, made her heart skip over a few beats like a little girl would over squares in hopscotch. She wet her aching, parched lips. “Clothes.”
“Really? Whatever happened to fig leaves?” Her lips twitched. How did he engage her sense of humor, when she wanted to murder him? “What do you sleep in?”
“What do people sleep in? But I’m no longer in my pajamas.”
“You’re not ‘people.’ And if I become the future king of Castaldini, I’ll issue a royal decree prohibiting you from wearing pajamas. A body like yours shouldn’t be encased in anything but drapes of chiffon, wraps of tulle, veils of gauze. Or just jewelry.”
“Sure. Just the things to attend Council meetings in,” she scoffed. “Fig leaves would be preferable.”
“You haven’t answered my question again, Clarissa.”
She sighed. “In the interest of preventing an inspection visit—I’m wearing another nondescript skirt suit.”
“Nothing you put on your body remains nondescript. After last night, skirt suits have entered the realm of highly erotic garments. Following the same rationalization, pajamas on you are probably the height of sexiness.” If he thought she had anything to say to that, he could think again. She was busy dealing with the impending heart attack he’d so casually caused. But he didn’t wait for her commentary. “What are you wearing beneath the jacket? Is your top buttoned, or pulled on, like the one you had on yesterday?”
“I don’t see—”
“It’s I who wants to see. In my mind’s eye. Now, do as I tell you. Take off your jacket. Slowly.”
His whispers, hypnotic, incendiary, were dragging her down into an endless well of mindlessness, incinerating rules and logic and memory. She still struggled. “Ferruccio, I don’t think—”
“Don’t think. Do it. This is where you start convincing me again. The jacket, Clarissa. Off.”
She took the phone away from her ear, stared at it, wondering if it had turned into a device that was whispering delusions. She put it back on, gritted, “It’s off.”
His whisper grew hotter, darker. “Liar.”
“How do you know if I’m lying or not?” She struggled not to pant. “Do you have my room bugged? Am I on camera now?”
“I can tell from your tone, from your breathing. From every cell in my body that’s telling me you’re still covered in layers of clothes. And you haven’t answered me. Buttons or pulled-on?”
“B-buttons…” she stammered.
“Leave the jacket on then. For now. Unbutton your blouse for me, Clarissa. Start at the top.” This time her hands trembled to obey him, as if powered by his will, his impatience. “Stop at the button just below your breasts.” She did. “Turn your phone to speaker mode. I want both your hands free.” She did that, too. “Now cross your hands inside your blouse, bellissima. Knead your breasts, then flick your nails over your nipples through your bra.” She fell back on the bed again, did as he instructed. “They’re hard now. Aching. Begging for my fingers, my lips and tongue and teeth.” And they were. How they were. “Do you remember the pressure I applied when I nipped them? Pinch them as hard.” She did, gasped, arched off the bed. “Again.” And again she did it, and every time he prodded her.
Fire raged through her. Her brain was sizzling, her chest, her eyes steaming, the heat in her gut converging to pour between her thighs, the pounding there beating to the frantic rhythm of her heart. She felt as if he’d taken over her body, was using her own hands as extensions of his lust, as if he was the one doing these things to her again. As he was. Whoever said the mind was the most powerful sex organ had been right. And he’d taken over hers.
“Pull your skirt up, touch your buttocks as I did, squeeze them.” She obeyed, unable to suppress her whimpers anymore. “It’s me doing it, pulling you against my erection, grinding into you. Spread your legs, Clarissa, let me have better access, open yourself and take more of me.”
She