Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 53

Damian's POV

The evening's business meeting had been tedious—three hours of posturing and negotiation with men who mistook volume for authority. By the time I finally escaped the smoky private dining room at Romano's, my patience was worn thin and my need for solitude acute.

Villa Cavalieri's familiar silhouette against the night sky should have brought relief, but instead I found myself thinking about the woman now living in my most private space. The arrangement should have been simple—clinical, controlled, mutually beneficial. Yet something about Aria Rossi consistently defied my expectations.

I found Jennifer in the kitchen, overseeing the final cleanup with her usual quiet efficiency. She looked up as I entered, her experienced eyes immediately cataloging my mood with the perception that came from decades of managing the Cavalieri household.

"Good evening, Mr. Cavalieri," she said warmly. "How was your meeting?"

"Productive enough." I loosened my tie, settling into one of the kitchen chairs with the kind of casual familiarity I only allowed around Jennifer. "How is Miss Rossi adjusting?"

"She's doing well, considering everything." Jennifer's tone was carefully measured, but I caught the subtle emphasis. "She ate a proper dinner tonight—the herb-crusted salmon I mentioned. Though I had to practically force her to finish her vegetables."

"And her mood?"

"Cautious. Polite. She asks permission for everything, even using the sitting room." Jennifer paused in her wiping of the counter, studying my face with those perceptive brown eyes. "She seems... fragile, if you don't mind my saying so."

I did mind her saying so, though I couldn't articulate why. "She's stronger than she appears."

"Perhaps. But strength and resilience aren't the same thing." Jennifer moved to put away the last of the dishes, her movements precise but unhurried. "She reminds me of those rare orchids your mother used to grow—beautiful, but requiring very specific conditions to thrive."

The comparison to my mother's flowers was pointed, though Jennifer would never make such observations without cause. Isabella Cavalieri had indeed cultivated exotic orchids, spending hours in the greenhouse creating perfect environments for delicate blooms. The irony wasn't lost on me.

"Miss Rossi isn't a flower, Jennifer. She's a practical arrangement."

"Of course she is." Jennifer's tone carried just enough diplomatic agreement to let me know she disagreed entirely. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've seen you check on a 'practical arrangement' three times in one evening."

"I checked on her condition twice. For medical reasons."

"Three times. You asked about her dinner, her mood, her comfort level, whether she needed anything specific, and now you're asking follow-up questions." Jennifer's smile was gentle but knowing. "In twenty-eight years, I've never seen you show such... detailed interest in a houseguest's wellbeing."

The observation was accurate and therefore irritating. "I'm protecting an investment."

"Hmm." Jennifer's noncommittal response spoke volumes. She'd been my surrogate mother since I was ten years old, and she had an infuriating ability to see through every defense I constructed. "Well, your 'investment' seemed quite relieved to learn you wouldn't be home for dinner tonight."

"Did she?"

"Nearly sagged with relief when I mentioned your business engagement." Jennifer's tone was casual, "Practically glowed when she realized she'd have the evening to herself."

"Where is she now?"

"Having a bath. She's been up there for..." Jennifer glanced at the kitchen clock, her expression shifting to concern. "Nearly an hour now. That's rather long, even for someone who enjoys soaking."

An hour. In my bathroom, in my space, naked in my bathtub. The image hit me like a physical blow—her pale skin flushed from hot water, her dark hair floating around bare shoulders, those perfect tits just breaking the surface...

My cock stirred at the thought, which was ridiculous. I'd seen her naked before, had her writhing beneath me, screaming my name. This shouldn't affect me.

"An hour?" I repeated, standing with more urgency than the situation warranted.

"She was quite tired after dinner. I suppose she could have fallen asleep, but..." Jennifer's concern was growing more evident. "After her recent accident, perhaps someone should check on her? Just to be safe?"

The memory of Lorenzo's call in Prague flashed through my mind—Miss Rossi had an accident near the lake. She fell in and nearly drowned. The clinical language hadn't conveyed the full scope of what could have happened, what I'd almost lost before I'd even realized its value.

I was moving toward the stairs before I'd consciously decided to act.

"Mr. Cavalieri?" Jennifer called after me.

"I'll check on her," I said over my shoulder, already taking the steps two at a time.

The master suite was quiet when I entered, lamplight casting long shadows across familiar furniture. The bathroom door was partially open, steam drifting out in lazy tendrils that carried the scent of expensive bath salts and something uniquely her.

I pushed the door open wider and stopped.

She was asleep in the bathtub, her head tilted back against the marble edge, dark lashes resting against pale cheeks. The water had obviously cooled—I could tell from the way her skin had lost the flush of heat, taking on a concerning paleness that reminded me too vividly of how she'd looked in that hospital bed.

For a moment, I simply stood there, cataloging details with the same precision I applied to business assessments. The delicate line of her throat, the way her hair floated in dark tendrils around her shoulders, the unconscious vulnerability that sleep had painted across her features.

She looked younger like this. Defenseless. Nothing like the defiant woman who'd negotiated modifications to our contract or thrown a towel at my head in indignation.

My cock, apparently, found vulnerable and naked extremely appealing.

"Need me to carry you out?" I asked, my voice deliberately casual to mask the unexpected hunger rising in my chest.

Her eyes snapped open, immediately widening with panic as she registered my presence. The shriek that followed was impressively loud—the kind of sound that would bring security running if this weren't a soundproofed room.

"Jesus Christ!" She scrambled to cover herself, movements clumsy with sleep and embarrassment. First her eyes, as if not seeing me would make this less mortifying. Then, with dawning horror, she realized she was the exposed one and tried futilely to hide her body while sitting in a fucking bathtub.

"Relax, piccola," I said, unable to suppress my amusement at her obvious mortification. "It's not like I haven't seen every inch of what you're trying to hide. Hell, I've had my tongue on most of it."

The reminder sent visible heat through her—a flush that had nothing to do with bathwater and everything to do with memories she tried so hard to suppress. I could see it in the way her breathing changed, the slight parting of her lips, the unconscious press of her thighs together.

She grabbed the nearest towel and hurled it at my head with surprising accuracy.

"Get out, you pervert!"

"This is my bathroom," I pointed out, making no move to leave despite the expensive Egyptian cotton draped over my head. "You asked permission to use it, remember?"

"I didn't ask permission for you to walk in while I was naked!"

She stood up in the tub with indignant fury, water cascading off curves that made my mouth go dry. Fuck, she was magnificent when she was angry. "Get out!"

"Careful," I warned, noting how treacherous wet marble could be. "The floor gets slippery when—"

Her foot hit the wet stone, and I watched her lose balance in slow motion. She pitched forward with a startled cry, arms windmilling as she prepared to crash face-first into unforgiving marble.

I caught her before impact.

The soft press of her tits against my chest, the way her curves fit perfectly against my angles, the sweet scent of her skin mixed with expensive bath oils—it all combined to send blood rushing straight to my cock.

Fuck. She was exquisite. I'd had my share of women—sophisticated socialites, experienced lovers, eager subordinates—but none of them had ever made my cock strain against my pants from simple skin contact. The combination of her innocence and hidden fire, that trembling defiance even while naked in my arms, went straight to my dick like nothing I'd ever experienced.

My erection pressed against her hip.

She tried to pull away, to create distance, but her squirming only made things worse.

"Put me down," she demanded, but her voice came out breathless, shaky, completely lacking conviction. Her body was responding to mine whether she wanted to admit it or not—I could see the flush spreading across her chest, the way her nipples tightened in the cool air.

Instead, I lifted her higher, throwing her over my shoulder like she weighed nothing. The position gave me an excellent view of her ass.

I couldn't resist delivering a sharp smack to the rounded flesh, feeling it quiver under my palm.

"Watch it, little one," I growled, my voice rough with barely controlled lust. "Stop causing trouble. Not all problems can be solved as easily as this one."

The smack drew a shocked gasp from her, but I felt the way her body responded—a subtle arch, a quickening of breath that had nothing to do with indignation and everything to do with arousal she was trying desperately to deny.

She shrieked in protest as I deposited her on the bed, scrambling to grab the nearest sheet to cover herself. The black silk slid over her damp skin like a caress, clinging to every curve and hollow, creating more temptation than concealment.

"You're such a bastard!" she spat, but I caught the tremor in her voice, the way her eyes kept darting to the obvious bulge straining against my pants.

"The worst kind," I agreed, starting toward the bathroom. My jaw was clenched with the effort of walking away when every instinct screamed at me to throw her back down on that bed and show her exactly what kind of bastard I could be.

"Where are you going?" The question came out.

I turned back slowly, taking in the sight of her wrapped in my sheets like some pagan offering, her hair still damp and tousled, her lips parted as she watched me with a mixture of confusion and something far more dangerous.

"To solve the problem you created," I said, my voice deliberately crude as I palmed myself through my pants, making sure she could see exactly what problem I was referring to. "This," I emphasized, drawing her attention to my obvious arousal, "is what happens when you rub your naked body against mine like a bitch in heat."

Her face flamed red, but she didn't look away. If anything, her grip on the sheet tightened as her breathing became shallow, rapid.

"Unless," I continued, my voice dropping to that dangerous whisper that always made her tremble, "you'd prefer to use that pretty mouth of yours to take care of it? I seem to remember you have quite the talented tongue when properly motivated."

I moved my hand to my belt buckle, fingers working the leather with deliberate slowness as I held her gaze. "What's it going to be, piccola? Do I handle this myself while thinking about how wet and tight you felt around my cock, or are you going to be a good girl and help me with the mess you made?"