Page 7 of Temptation
I stumble backward, away from the door, away from the footsteps drawing closer and closer.
Frantic thoughts whirl through my head. What am I supposed to do now?
I can’t hide, and I certainly can’t run.
The only option I am left with is to fight. Frantically, I scan the room for a potential weapon.
If I’d paused for a moment to rethink my intention, I might realize the futility of my plan. But as soon as my eyes fall on the sturdy lamp on the nightstand, my instincts and sense of self-preservation take over. I rush forward, yanking the cord from the wall and wrapping my hands around my makeshift weapon as tight as possible.
Just as I position myself behind the door, it creaks open. At least I am not surprised by the figure that enters the room.
Fueled by another surge of adrenaline pumping through my veins, I swing the lamp at him. But I am no match for his lightning-quick reflexes. He stops me mid-swing with a tight grip on my wrist. My makeshift weapon clatters to the floor with a dull thud. And I am left defenseless.
But at least I’ve managed to catch him off guard just enough to use it to my advantage. I shove both of my hands against his chest in an attempt to create some distance between us. He stumbles back a mere inch or two. Still seeing this as an opportunity, I prepare to push past him and make a run for it. But I don’t even get the chance to take a single step.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growls, snatching my arm and yanking me deeper into the room.
“Let go of me!” I twist, turn, and struggle against his iron grip on my arm with every last ounce of strength I can muster. It’s not nearly enough to stand a chance against him, but I refuse to give up.
Finally, I manage to free one arm and swing at him, my palm connecting with his cheek. His head snaps to the side, but he doesn’t flinch. My hand throbs from the impact; I think I’ve hurt myself more than him.
Fuck.
The second Fabrizio Moretti’s eyes lock onto mine, I know I made a mistake. A big fucking mistake. A colossal mistake. A catastrophic, life-altering mistake.
His gaze pierces through me, a potent mix of smoldering fury and primal hunger that makes my skin prickle with dread. The man towering over me exudes danger, a coiled predator ready to strike. And I’ve just poked that beast, slapped it across the face for good measure.
That realization leads me to a startling conclusion: I’m either mind-bogglingly stupid or harboring a strong death wish. Since my mind is still racing, frantically scrambling for an escape, I settle on stupidity. But I don’t even get a chance to test that theory.
As I continue to squirm and struggle in his hold, failing to put up any real resistance, he spins us around and effortlessly tosses me onto the bed.
My back has barely hit the mattress before he is on top of me, straddling my legs and pinning my arms above my head. Even trapped beneath his massive frame, I refuse to surrender, futilely bucking my hips in a futile attempt to throw him off me.
“Stop fighting me,” he growls, sounding completely unbothered while I’m gasping for air, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath.
“Fuck you,” I spit out, my voice barely more than a breathless hiss.
He tilts his head down, and the deep rumble that escapes his throat sounds almost like a chuckle in my ears, feeding my fear with a fresh surge of rage. I push against him again, and his fingers tighten around my wrists.
“Will you stop now?” he says, his voice tinged with a hint of exasperation. “I have no intention of hurting you , but—”
“You’re already hurting me.” The words slip out before I can stop them, laced with a hint of vulnerability I had absolutely no intention of showing.
But almost instantly, his grip on my wrists loosens, though he doesn’t let go of me completely. The tension in his body starts to dissipate, his fingers no longer digging into my skin.
I dare to look up at him, my gaze locking onto his, on those piercing blue eyes, and for a moment, we just stare at each other, the only sound audible our ragged breathing.
His deep, raspy voice cuts through the tense silence. “Will you behave now?”
I take a deep breath and nod in answer. What other choice do I really have?
“Good girl,” he rumbles. The slight amusement in his tone ignites a spark of indignation in me, but I swallow down every insult that comes to mind, forcing every last one of them back down my throat. With his big frame still caging me, it’s the smartest thing to do.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, even though I am not sure I want to hear the answer to my question.
“I simply want to talk to you,” he responds, his tone deceptively calm and firm.
“I have nothing to say to you except let me go,” I snap, trying to sound braver than I feel.
