My phone rings a moment after Sergio walks out of the room. I pick up my purse which I’d tossed on the bed and dig inside for my phone. It’s Drew so I answer.

“Hey Drew.”

“Hey. You there? At the house?”

I smile. “Yes.” I plop down on the bed. “Weirdo.”

“Well, what’s it like?”

“Huge. Lavish. I wonder if it’s haunted.”

“Ha. Did you meet Franco Benedetti?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And nothing. He’s just like you’d expect. Cold. Sergio’s mom’s nice though. And one of his brothers seems okay.”

“Yeah, well, what did you expect? I still can’t believe you’re with him.”

“I know.” I know Drew doesn’t approve. He thinks I’m going to get hurt and I can see how he’d think that, especially given what just happened. I lied to him for the first time since I’ve known him, too. I told him the flowers were from Sergio. But I force that worrying thought from my mind. “How’s Pepper?” He took Pepper for the weekend.

“She’s fine, you don’t need to worry about her.”

“Thanks again for taking her on such short notice.”

“Don’t worry about it. Hey, I heard something about Professor Dayton taking a few weeks off.”

Shit. “Is he?” I play dumb.

“Heard your boyfriend paid him a visit.”

“Drew—”

“Just be careful, okay? These are dangerous people.”

“He told me he loved me.”

My comment is greeted by silence on the other end of the phone. “Did you tell him?” he finally asks.

“Not yet. But…”

“Nat, I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be. He won’t hurt me.”

“It’s not him hurting you that worries me. It’s you knowing him putting you in danger.”

I know this already. “I have to go.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, I actually called to tell you to have fun. I don’t want to be a shitty friend.”

“You’re not. You never could be.”

“So go have fun.”

I chuckle.

“And call me ASAP with any gossip!” he adds on, making me smile.

“You’re worse than a woman.”

“I know. Love you.”

“Love you.”

After slipping my phone back into my purse, I open the closet door, and walk in. There, hanging between several suits, is the most beautiful red dress I have ever seen. Beneath it on the floor is a pair of matching red pumps.

I touch the dress, feel the silky material, rise up on tip-toe to lift the hanger off the rack. The tags are still on the label, and I don’t recognize the name of the boutique but I do know the Italian designer. I don’t want to think about how much it cost.

I carry it back into the bedroom and walk to the ornate, full length mirror standing in one corner. I hold the dress up to myself. The long, layered skirts fall to mid-calf, and thick straps leave a wholly exposed back. The color is perfect, a deep, rich crimson. I love it.

Laying it on the bed, I walk into the bathroom. It, too, is large, and old-fashioned with a clawfoot tub set in the middle of the room boasting copper fixtures. I plug the drain and turn on the water, adjust the temperature and let it fill up as I wind my hair on top of my head and check out the soaps, shampoos and bath oils. I choose one that smells of jasmine, drop a few droplets into the rapidly filling tub and stand back to watch as I undress. I then climb in, letting the splash of water tickle my toes as I look out the window onto the dark, starry night.

This is why I don’t mind the cold. The skies are clear then and out here, a million stars dot the midnight sky.

Midnight.

Like Sergio’s eyes.

I close mine, and take a deep breath in and slowly sink deeper into the tub as I switch off the water with my foot. The scent of jasmine steams upward and I let myself relax, listening to the drip of the last few drops from the tap.

This weekend is important to Sergio for his mother’s sake. I get the feeling this will be one of the last times they’ll all be together and that she’ll be healthy enough not to be confined to a bed.

I open my eyes and look up at the ceiling, follow the intricate pattern of the crown molding along the edges, around the light fixture. It’s a mini-chandelier. I have to smile, shaking my head, wondering just how much money the Benedetti family has. It’s a kind of wealth I don’t think I can grasp.

But then I think of how they earn that money.

That thought sobers me. Reminds me where I am. And with whom.

I shouldn’t get too comfortable. I can’t forget what the last few days have brought. What it means for me. What Sergio Benedetti loving me means. Because he’s right, I did walk into this—eyes wide open. And I’m not naïve enough to think Sergio’s hands are clean.

I push those thoughts away and pull the plug on the drain. Water pours off me as I stand, grab a thick towel off the stack nearby and wrap myself up. I walk to the mirror, glance at my reflection, wonder how I got here, wonder how much I’m willing to ignore to be here.

Wonder who I am.

I’m dressed but barefoot and sitting on the floor in front of the mirror braiding my hair when Sergio walks in a little before nine. I meet his gaze in the mirror, but my smile falters. He looks strange, like he’s got something on his mind, and in his hand, he’s holding a tumbler of whiskey. He closes the door, stands just inside and watches me as he takes a sip of his drink and I wonder if it’s his first. It doesn’t look like it.

“Hey,” I say quietly, returning my attention to braiding my hair, feeling my fingers disappear in the thick mass as I create a long, intricate pattern.

Sergio moves, he pulls a chair up behind me and sits, takes another sip of his drink before setting it down. His legs are on either side of my shoulders.

“Okay?” I ask.

He nods. “You look good.”

I finish the braid, but I don’t get a chance to tie the end of it together before he puts his hands on the thick straps of the dress and pushes them off my shoulders. I look at myself, at the dress as it slips down to my waist. Look at my bared breasts. At how the braid is already beginning to unravel.

“Don’t you want to get changed for dinner?” I ask.

Sergio reaches down and cups my breasts. Draws his fingernails over them. He takes the already hardened nipples between thumb and forefinger and rubs.

I swallow, my eyes locked on his in the mirror. “We’re going to be late,” I say weakly.

“Turn around,” he says.

I kneel up, put my hands on his thighs and face him so I’m kneeling between his widespread legs. He touches his thumb to my lips, then smears the dark red lipstick across my cheek.

“What are you doing?” I ask quietly, beginning to rise as I touch the corner of my mouth. But he takes my hands and shakes his head.

“I want to mess up your face,” he says, undoing his belt, the buttons of his jeans.

I watch, my heartbeat picking up when he pushes them down, takes his already thick cock into his fist.

“I want to bruise your perfect lips when I fuck your mouth. I want to come all over your pretty face.”

He wraps one hand around the back of my head and draws me to him, ruining the braid as he pushes himself into my mouth. I open for him but it’s not wide enough and when I try to draw back, he stands up, his fingers curling into my hair, fisting a handful of it.

“Just open,” he says.

I’m looking up at him because he’s got my head tilted upward. He bites his lip and I rise up on my knees, wrap my hands around his powerful legs.

“Good girl. Like that. Just open and let me fuck your face.”

I want to slide my hand under my skirt but he’s moving too fast, and I can’t breathe when he pushes so deep, so I push against his thighs, try to pull back, but he won’t let me.

“Shh. Relax, Natalie.” He’s not coaxing me. It’s a command. “Look up. Look at me.”

I do, and he nods his head and pulls out a little, lets me gulp in a breath, then slides his length back into my mouth.

“That’s it, like that. I’m going to go deeper now. I want to watch you take my cock. Want to watch your face when I come down your throat.”

He starts to pump and I panic when I can’t breathe but he leans down and pets my hair and now he’s coaxing me. Whispering something over and over again.

“Trust me, Natalie. Trust me.”

I do. I trust him. And when I relax my mouth, my throat, he grips me so hard that I can’t move, and thrusts in deep and I know he’s going to come. I feel him grow even thicker and his eyes get that glow, that sheen, and a moment later, I feel the throbbing, feel his release, see it on his face as he empties down my throat and I swallow. I swallow and when he pulls out, I cover my mouth, but he doesn’t release me. Instead, he crouches down.

“Natalie.” He smiles at me, kisses me softly. “Sweet, pretty Natalie.” He touches the scruff of his jaw to my temple. “You have to learn to swallow it all,” he whispers, and smears what I couldn’t swallow across my cheek, over the ruined lipstick, and kisses me, kisses me hard, his tongue where his cock just was, tasting his own cum, messing up my face, like he said he would.

“I love you,” he says, holding me close, so close with his hand wrapped around the base of my skull, keeping me against him. “I love you and you’re it for me. Mine. No matter what. Understand?”

I don’t know how much he drank, but I taste whiskey on his breath and the way he’s talking, the way he’s holding me, it’s strange. Too much. Too dark.

“Did something happen?” I dare to whisper. I don’t want to pull away, to interrupt this intimacy. Because what he’s saying, it’s true. I’m his. I know it and I want it.

He draws back, his face an inch from me.

“Mine, Natalie. Always. No matter what.”