His Bargain With The Diva
# A Diva’s Bargain The scent of aged leather and Cuban cigars clung to the air in the Rossi family office. Vivian smoothed the silk of her emerald wrap dress, the fabric skimming the generous swell of her hips and the curve of her backside
Chapter 1
The scent of aged leather and Cuban cigars clung to the air in the Rossi family office. Vivian smoothed the silk of her emerald wrap dress, the fabric skimming the generous swell of her hips and the curve of her backside. Behind her, the door clicked shut with a finality that set her teeth on edge. Her father’s consigliere had called her in from the opera house, not an hour removed from the stage, her throat still raw from the thunderous applause. This was not a summons for praise.
She found him standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette sharp as a blade against the twilit Manhattan skyline. Dominic Moretti. She’d heard the name whispered in the wings—a man who ate empires for breakfast. He turned, and the dying sun caught the rugged angles of his jaw, the neat beard, the glint of ink curling up from the starched collar of his bespoke shirt. His eyes, dark and intensely focused, raked over her with a slow, proprietary sweep that made her skin prickle. She froze, her blue eyes narrowing.
“So, you’re the pawn in my father’s latest deal,” Vivian said, shedding the demure ingénue mask she wore for the audience. Her voice, a smoky contralto even in speech, cut through the tension. “I don’t do negotiations. What’s the proposal?”
A corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile. “Direct. I appreciate that. Your father and I have come to an agreement. A merger of families, you could say. The cost of doing business is… you.”
The arrogance. She folded her arms, inadvertently pressing her full breasts against the dress’s deep V-neck, the edge of a hawk’s wing tattoo peeking above the fabric at her hip. Beneath the silk, the faint scratch of lace from her balconette bra was a secret armor. She saw his gaze dip, linger, and then, with a deliberate slowness, drift lower, to the outline of her rear before returning to her face. A hot wash of self-consciousness flooded her—she’d always felt too much, too round, too visible. Yet his appraisal wasn’t scathing; it was… hungry. The realization both mortified and electrified her.
“I’m not a commodity, Mr. Moretti. I’m an artist,” she bit out, stepping further into the room, the soft clack of her heels an aggressive counterpoint. “And I don’t have affairs with men who think they can own me with a handshake.”
Dominic’s expression didn’t waver, but something primitive glinted in his stare. “I heard you sing from the private box last season. *La Traviata*. You made the woman next to me weep. I haven’t been able to get your voice out of my head since. That’s not ownership, *cantante*. That’s worship.”
The Italian endearment, rough and low, coiled in her belly. She hated how her body responded, a traitorous heat spreading from her core. He was dangerous—not just the clipped way he’d mentioned the merger, but the romantic undertone beneath the iron control. A man who would conquer, not just acquire.
“Worship requires devotion,” she fired back, tilting her chin up. “I see only another suit making demands.”
He moved then, a single fluid stride that ate the distance between them until she could catch the faint spice of his cologne, see the silver threads in his dark hair. He didn’t touch her. He simply angled his head, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that dragged along her nerves. “Devotion? I intend to devote hours to learning every inch of that body you hide so defiantly in silk. Especially the parts you think are a flaw.”
Her breath hitched. He was talking about her backside, she was sure of it. The blunt honesty, the complete absence of lecherous smarm, undid her defenses. She felt herself leaning forward, drawn by the sheer force of him. The space between their chests crackled, a magnetic field of unspent desire.
“Then earn it,” she breathed, the words escaping before her dominant mind could cage them. A challenge. A surrender, maybe.
His pupils bled into the brown of his irises. “I intend to, Vivian. Starting now.”
But he didn’t move closer. Neither did she. The first battle of their arranged war ended not with a kiss but with the silent, searing promise of one—a promise that hung in the air, heavy and intoxicating, as the New York night swallowed the last of the light.
And in the shadows of that office, both of them understood: the real negotiations had only just begun.
Chapter 2
The door swung open before Dominic could close the distance between them.
Salvatore Rossi filled the frame like a storm cloud in a five-thousand-dollar suit—silver-haired, barrel-chested, with the same stubborn jaw his daughter had inherited. His eyes swept the office, cataloguing the charged space between Vivian and Dominic with a patriarch's calculation.
"Papa." Vivian's voice dropped to something cold and lethal. She stepped away from Dominic, her heels striking the marble like gunshots. "What have you done?"
Salvatore closed the door behind him, unbuttoning his jacket with maddening calm. "I've secured your future. The Moretti alliance guarantees protection for our family and funding for every opera house you ever dreamed of gracing."
"I didn't ask for protection." Her hands curled into fists at her sides, the emerald silk straining across her knuckles. "I chose a life outside your world. No more midnight disappearances. No more men with guns at my recitals. No more waiting for a phone call telling me my father's been shot in some back-alley deal gone wrong."
"You chose music," Salvatore said, his tone hardening. "But blood doesn't vanish because you sing pretty arias, Vivian. The Mancini family doesn't care about your art. They care about territory, and they know exactly whose daughter you are."
"So you sold me." She laughed—a bitter, operatic sound that filled every corner of the room. "A merger of families. That's what he called it." She jerked her chin toward Dominic, who stood motionless by the window, watching the exchange with predatory stillness. "You bartered your daughter like a piece of real estate."
"I bartered for your survival." Salvatore's fist came down on the mahogany desk, rattling a crystal decanter. "You think I wanted this? You think I enjoyed watching you build something beautiful far from my sins? I gave you space because you demanded it. But when the Mancinis started circling your theater, your apartment, your rehearsals—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "Dominic offered a solution before blood had to be spilled."
Vivian whirled on Dominic then, her blue eyes blazing. "And what do you get out of this transaction, Mr. Moretti? A trophy wife who warms your bed while you conduct your criminal empire?"
Dominic didn't flinch. His dark gaze held hers with an intensity that made her breath catch despite her fury. "I get the woman whose voice made me believe something beautiful could exist in this world of blood and betrayal." He moved toward her now, each step deliberate. "I told you before—this isn't ownership. But make no mistake, Vivian. I protect what's mine."
"I'm not yours," she spat.
"You will be," he said softly, stopping inches from her face while her father watched from across the room like a witness to an inevitable collision. "Not because he gave you to me—but because when you look at me, your pulse races exactly like mine does."
Her chest heaved against the emerald silk, nipples pebbled against the lace beneath, and she hated that every word he spoke was true.
"The negotiations are complete," Salvatore said quietly from behind them both, suddenly sounding every one of his sixty-eight years.
Vivian didn't turn around to face him again; she kept her eyes locked on Dominic’s dark stare while answering through clenched teeth: “Then you've made yourself clear... but so will I.” Her fingers rose deliberately toward Dominic’s chest without touching him yet hovering just above where she could feel heat radiating beneath his shirt—“This bargain isn’t finished until *I* decide what terms matter most... starting now.”
Chapter 3
Vivian's finger hovered a breath from Dominic's chest, her nail a crimson threat. "Before you start spinning fantasies about ownership, let me make something crystalline clear."
Dominic didn't retreat. His dark eyes held hers with an intensity that bordered on reverent. "Name your terms."
"My career," she said, each word a surgical incision. "Non-negotiable. I rehearsed until my throat bled to stand on those stages. If you think this arrangement means I'll cancel performances because you're feeling territorial or need arm candy at some mafia dinner, you can tear up whatever contract you signed with my father right now."
Something flickered in Dominic's expression—not anger, but respect sharpened by desire. "I would never ask that of you."
"You'd be shocked what men ask." She stepped back, creating distance she desperately needed to think clearly. "Second term: I stay away from anything related to your business. No meetings, no names, no whispered information I can't unknow. I built a life outside this world, and I won't be dragged back into it because marriage gives you proximity."
"Agreed." The word came without hesitation.
"Third—" She faltered as his hand rose, not to touch her but to trace the air near her hip where the hawk's wing disappeared beneath emerald silk.
"You keep yourself apart from the ugliness," Dominic said quietly. "I need that separation as much as you do. When I come to you, Vivian, I won't be bringing bloodstains and boardroom betrayals. I'll be bringing myself—the man who sat in that dark theater and forgot he was a monster for three hours because your voice made him human again."
Salvatore cleared his throat behind them. "I'll leave you to finalize the details." The door clicked shut with surprising gentleness.
Vivian's pulse hammered beneath her jaw. "One more thing."
Dominic waited, patient as a predator certain of his prey.
"If your fragile ego ever makes my career suffer—if jealousy or possessiveness costs me even one rehearsal—this ends. No negotiation, no second chances." She lifted her chin, blue eyes blazing against the dimming light through the window. "I will walk away and sing louder for spite."
His mouth curved into that dangerous almost-smile again. "Understood." Then he closed the remaining space between them in one fluid motion, his hand finding the generous curve of her backside through the silk dress—not grabbing, just resting there like a man claiming ground he intended to worship for hours.
"And my terms?" His voice dropped to gravel against her ear.
"You get terms?" She hated how breathless she sounded.
"Just one." His palm pressed firmer against the flesh she'd always thought excessive, and his groan vibrated through her collarbone. "You let me spend every available hour proving this part of you deserves reverence instead of shame."
Chapter 4
The Rossi estate glittered with champagne and calculated smiles. Vivian stood beneath the crystal chandelier in the great room, her crimson gown a defiant slash of color among the sea of black suits and muted silks. Dominic's hand rested at the small of her back—proprietary, warm, infuriatingly steady.
"To my daughter and Dominic Moretti," Salvatore announced, raising his glass. "A union that secures our families' futures."
The applause was polite, measured. Business applause. Vivian's painted smile didn't waver.
Then Dominic turned to her, and the room fell away.
From his pocket, he withdrew a velvet box. The ring inside caught the chandelier light like captured fire—an oval sapphire, deep as a midnight aria, flanked by diamonds that seemed to breathe. The band was platinum, engraved with something she couldn't read from this angle.
"I had it designed the week after I heard you sing," Dominic murmured, his voice a low caress meant only for her. "The sapphire matches the exact blue of your eyes when you're about to hit a high C. I watched recordings. Studied the lighting. Made the jeweler watch them too until he understood what I wanted."
Her breath caught. Her treacherous throat tightened. The man had commissioned a ring based on the color of her eyes while she was performing.
"Dominic..." she started, but her voice cracked.
"Say yes," he whispered, sliding the ring onto her finger. "Say yes, and I'll spend every day making sure you never regret it."
The crowd erupted. Cameras flashed. Vivian looked down at the sapphire winking against her skin and felt the walls closing in.
Chapter 5
Two hours later, the guests had dispersed. Dominic had been called away by urgent business—she didn't ask what kind. Her father was in his study, no doubt already counting the political capital their engagement had bought.
Vivian stood alone in her childhood bedroom, the door locked, her chest heaving.
The ring weighed a thousand pounds.
She looked at it, really looked, and saw not a love token but a collar. Gorgeous. Priceless. Impossible to remove without consequences. He'd studied her. He'd watched recordings of her performances. He'd commissioned a sapphire to match her eyes while she was singing, while she was free, while she was hers.
And now she was his.
The thought hit her like a physical blow. Her lungs seized. The crimson dress suddenly felt like a straitjacket, too tight, too hot, too much. She clawed at the zipper, gasping, and the silk pooled at her feet. Standing in nothing but her black lace balconette and matching thong, she still couldn't breathe.
"I can't do this," she choked out to the empty room. "I can't—he owns me now, he—"
Her reflection in the mirror showed a woman she didn't recognize—wild-eyed, panicked, trapped. Her hips looked too wide. Her ass, barely covered by the thong's thin strip, looked obscene. Everything about her body that he claimed to worship suddenly felt like evidence of her captivity.
"You wanted me because of my voice," she spat at the imaginary Dominic in the mirror. "You studied me like a fucking acquisition. You—"
The sapphire glittered.
With a sound halfway between a sob and a scream, Vivian wrenched the ring off her finger and hurled it across the room. It struck the wall with a satisfying crack and disappeared behind her dressing table.
Silence.
She stood there, panting, tears streaking her mascara, her body trembling in the aftermath of the panic attack.
Then a knock came at the door.
"Vivian." Dominic's voice, low and urgent. "I heard something break. Open the door."
She stared at the locked door, at the ring hidden in shadows, at her half-naked reflection.
"Vivian." Harder now. "Open the door or I'll break it down."
Chapter 6
The lock clicked open before she could reach for her robe.
Dominic filled the doorway, his tie loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal the dark ink crawling up his chest. His eyes swept the room—the discarded crimson dress on the floor, her trembling body clad only in black lace, the mascara tracks on her cheeks—and something in his expression shifted from urgency to raw, possessive concern.
"Where is it?" His voice was gravel.
"Where's what?" Vivian crossed her arms over her chest, acutely aware of how the balconette pushed her breasts up, how the thong left the generous curve of her ass completely exposed. She refused to cower.
"The ring." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I heard it hit the wall."
"Maybe I threw it out the window."
"You didn't." Dominic moved past her, and she caught the scent of his cologne mixed with the faint smokiness of whiskey. He crouched by her dressing table, reaching into the shadows. When he straightened, the sapphire glittered in his palm. "You missed."
"Maybe I'll aim better next time."
He turned to her, and the look on his face stopped her breath. Not anger. Something far more dangerous—understanding.
"You think this ring makes you my property." He advanced slowly, and she backed up until her shoulders met the cool wall. "You think I want a possession."
"It's what my father sold you."
"Your father sold me a merger." Dominic stopped inches from her, close enough that his body heat radiated through the thin lace of her bra. "I bought the chance to be near you. There's a difference."
Vivian's chin lifted defiantly. "You watched recordings of me. Studied me. Like I was a stock to acquire."
"I watched you because I couldn't look away." His hand came up, rough knuckles brushing her tear-stained cheek. "Because your voice made me feel something I haven't felt in fifteen years of burying bodies and closing deals. And I hated that it did."
Her breath hitched. "So this is revenge? Making me your kept woman?"
"This is me," Dominic said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "asking you to keep me instead."
The confession hung between them, raw and unexpected. Vivian searched his face for the lie, the manipulation, and found only the same desperate hunger she'd seen in the office that first night.
"I don't trust you," she whispered.
"I know." His thumb traced her lower lip. "But you will."
She should push him away. Should demand he leave, should reclaim her dignity from the ashes of her panic attack. Instead, she found herself asking, "Why should I?"
"Because I'm not going anywhere." Dominic's hand slid from her face to her hip, his palm spanning the curve she'd always thought too wide, too much. "Because every inch of you that you hate, I've been dreaming about for months. And because," he leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear, "I'll spend the rest of my life proving I'm worth the risk."
Vivian shivered, her body betraying her mind's protests. "Pretty words from a dangerous man."
"Pretty words from a man who's never begged for anything before." He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "Put the ring back on. Not because you're mine—but because I'm asking."
The sapphire glinted between his fingers.
"You'll throw it again when you're angry," he continued. "You'll scream at me, fight me, probably try to stab me at least once. I'm looking forward to all of it. But right now, right here—choose this. Choose us. Not because your father said so, but because you want to see what happens next."
Vivian stared at the ring, at the man holding it, at the precipice she stood on.
And slowly, deliberately, she held out her left hand.
Chapter 7
Three weeks into the engagement, the wedding planner’s silk-bound binder sprawled across Dominic’s study desk. Vivian sat opposite him, one leg crossed over the other, the slit in her emerald dress falling open to reveal the curve of her thigh. She watched his eyes track the exposed skin before dragging back to the seating chart.
“We’ll use the cathedral,” Dominic stated. “Your father wants five hundred guests. I’ve narrowed it to four.”
“How generous of you.” Vivian’s tone was dry. “Am I allowed to choose my own flowers, or will you be picking those too?”
He ignored the barb. “The dress is what matters. I have a specific vision.”
“A vision.” She set down her pen, her blue eyes narrowing. “Do tell.”
“Modest. High neck. Long sleeves. No slit, no back, no lace panels.” Dominic leaned forward, his forearms bracketing the binder, the dark ink of his tattoos stark under the lamplight. “Nothing that flaunts what belongs to me.”
The last two words landed like a physical blow. Vivian felt the heat rise from her chest to her throat. “Belongs to you? I’m not a piece of real estate you acquired.”
“You’re my fiancée. There’s a difference.” His voice dropped, rough and deliberate. “And I don’t want every man in that church staring at your tits. I’ve seen the way they look at you. The way you look in silk.” He let his gaze drift down her body, pausing openly at the generous swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the wide flare of her hips visible even seated. “That ass you think is too big? I’ve gotten hard in board meetings just remembering how it fills out your dresses. I’ll be damned if I share that view with a congregation.”
The crude term—*ass*, delivered in that low, smoky register—sent a conflicting jolt through her. Heat pooled in her belly, even as fury tightened her jaw. The lace of her balconette bra suddenly scratched against her nipples, hypersensitive. Between her legs, a traitorous pulse answered him.
Vivian stood, planting her palms on the desk. “You don’t get to wrap me in a shroud because you’re possessive. I’m an artist. I wear what expresses *me*. If you can’t stomach that, maybe you should’ve negotiated for a different merger.”
Dominic rose too, slower, unfolding his height until he loomed over her. “I negotiated for *you*. Every stubborn, sharp-tongued inch.” His hand lifted, almost reaching for her hip, then stopped. “I’m not trying to hide you. I’m trying to keep some part of you just for my eyes. My hands. My mouth.”
The image flashed—his mouth on her, his hands gripping her backside. Her breath caught, and she hated that he saw it.
“Then earn the right to ask,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. “Until then, I’ll wear what I choose.”
She turned, giving him the full, deliberate view of her rear as the dress clung to its generous shape. She felt his stare like a physical weight, knew he was watching the sway, knew his cock was probably straining against his trousers. Let him suffer.
Vivian walked out without a backward glance. The study door closed behind her, sealing the argument—and the unresolved, crackling tension—inside.
Chapter 8
The bridal boutique on Madison Avenue smelled of tuberose and old money. Vivian's mother, Elena, already occupied a velvet settee, a flute of champagne balanced between manicured fingers. Three ivory garment bags hung from a brass rack, curated by the consultant before Vivian's arrival.
“You're late,” Elena said, her dark eyes sweeping over her daughter's figure with practiced appraisal. “And you've been arguing with that man again. I can see it in your jaw.”
Vivian kissed her mother's cheek and dropped her purse onto the settee. “Dominic wants me in a nun's habit. High neck, long sleeves, no shape.” She turned to the consultant, a slender woman clutching a tablet. “Show me what you have in mermaid silhouettes. Fitted through the hip. Low back. Nothing that hides what God gave me.”
Elena's eyebrow arched. “Your fiancé has opinions?”
“My fiancé can choke on his opinions.” Vivian accepted a champagne flute and drained half of it. “What I try on today stays between us. You, me, and the staff I'm about to pay very handsomely for their silence.”
The consultant nodded, already sensing the commission. “We have a new Monique Lhuillier. Hand-beaded, illusion lace, open back to the sacrum.”
“Perfect. Bring it.”
Elena set down her glass. “Vivian. If Dominic sees you walk down that aisle in something he explicitly forbade—”
“He'll be furious.” Vivian's lips curved, the first genuine smile of the day. “And then he'll be so hard he can't think straight. I've seen the way he looks at my body, Mama. He wants to own it because he can't stop wanting it. A dress that shows what he's trying to hide? That's power. And I intend to wield it.”
Her mother studied her for a long moment, something knowing flickering behind her composed expression. “You're playing a dangerous game with a dangerous man.”
“I'm not playing.” Vivian stepped toward the dressing suite, then paused at the curtain. “I'm negotiating. He started this merger. I'm setting the terms.”
Behind the heavy velvet curtain, she shed her wrap dress and stood in nothing but the black balconette bra and matching thong—the lace scraping her nipples in a way that had become distractingly familiar. The consultant helped her into the gown, lacing the corset back snug until the dress gripped her waist like a possessive hand.
Vivian turned to the mirror.
The illusion lace plunged to her sternum, the curve of her full breasts visible through the delicate pattern. The dress hugged her hips, her backside—that generous swell Dominic had confessed to obsessing over in board meetings—displayed without apology. When she pivoted, the open back revealed the hawk's wing tattoo at her hip, the dimples above her ass, the long line of her spine.
She looked obscenely, defiantly beautiful.
“I'll take it,” she said, her voice steady. “And not one word of this leaves this room.”
She dismissed the consultant with a curt nod and locked the dressing room door. Alone, she faced the mirror again, one hand trailing down the beaded bodice to the curve of her rear. She imagined Dominic's dark eyes tracking the same path, his jaw tight with fury and hunger, his cock straining against his trousers.
Her fingers found the hem, slipped beneath the silk, and pressed against the damp lace between her legs. She circled her clit through the fabric, a soft gasp escaping her throat. This was for her—the secret, the dress, the pulse of heat building in her pussy as she pictured his face when he saw her. It wasn't about climax. It was about the ache, the anticipation, the knowledge that she held the reins.
She withdrew her hand, smoothed the dress, and let herself feel the throb of unsatisfied need as a promise.
Outside, Elena was waiting. “You found what you wanted?”
Vivian emerged, her expression serene. “I found exactly what I wanted. And Dominic doesn't get to know until he's standing at the altar.”
Her mother's composure cracked, just slightly, into a smile. “You're more like me than I ever admitted.”
Vivian signaled the consultant. “Ring it up. And remember—any leak, and I'll know exactly where it came from.”
As she dressed to leave, her phone buzzed with a text from Dominic: *Did you behave today?*
She typed back: *Wouldn't you like to know.*
Then she slipped the phone into her purse, her body still humming with unspent heat, the secret of the dress burning against her skin like a brand.
Chapter 9
The final act of *Tosca* still trembled in Vivian’s throat as she pushed into her dressing room, the standing ovation a distant roar behind the soundproofed door. Silk roses and stage dust clung to the hem of her crimson gown, the corset tight against her ribs, each breath a small rebellion. The mirror reflected a woman flushed with triumph—and unease.
Two bouquets occupied the vanity.
Dominic’s was unmistakable: a cascade of black Baccara roses, lush and absolute, a single emerald glinting in their depths like a possessive eye. The card bore his sharp script: *You owned the night. –A.* She let her fingers drift over a petal, a private smile softening her mouth.
The second arrangement was an explosion of white gardenias and blood-red orchids, exquisite and anonymous. No card. No sender. The perfume was cloying, almost funereal. Vivian’s stomach clenched.
The door clicked open behind her. She didn’t need the mirror to identify the presence that filled the small room, dark wool and spiced cologne, controlled fury radiating like heat shimmer.
“Gardenias suit funerals, not opening nights,” Dominic said, his voice a low blade. He loomed behind her, his reflection locking onto hers. “Who sends anonymous flowers to my fiancée?”
Vivian turned, the gown’s train whispering against the floor. “Someone trying to rattle me. Or you.” She met his gaze, saw the jealousy coiled tight beneath the bespoke composure. “But you’re not here to discuss botany, I think.”
He stepped close enough that the wool of his trousers grazed the front of her dress. “I’m here because I’ve been hard since the first aria.” His hand lifted, knuckles tracing the curve of her jaw, then sliding down to the pulse beating in her throat. “That dress on stage—low cut, clinging to your ass like it was painted on. And tonight, I watched every man in that hall imagine what I get to have.”
“And what do you get?” she whispered, deliberately arching her back so the swell of her rear pressed against the vanity edge, the corset pushing her breasts higher.
His other hand found the small of her back, fingers splaying over the satin. “Tonight? A reminder.” He spun her to face the mirror, chest to her spine, his cock rigid and unmistakable against the cleft of her ass. “You’re mine, Vivian. Not a gift from a merger. Not a secret to be stolen by whoever sent those weeds.”
She watched his reflection, his dark eyes devouring her, his free hand sliding up her hip, bunching the gown’s skirt until cool air kissed the bare backs of her thighs. “I haven’t worn anything beneath the costume,” she confessed, the words thick with challenge.
His growl vibrated against her ear. His fingers found her pussy—slick, hot, already swollen—and traced a lazy circle around her clit without pressing. “So fucking wet for me. Did you sing the whole second act like this, thinking of my hands?”
“Yes,” she gasped, hips bucking into his touch, but he didn’t penetrate, just kept that maddening, feather-light orbit. “Dominic…”
He withdrew his hand, brought glistening fingers to his lips, sucked her taste off them slowly, his gaze never leaving hers in the mirror. “When I take you on our wedding night, I want you soaked and aching, knowing every inch you hid from the world belongs to me.” He straightened her skirt, smoothed the fabric down as if dressing a porcelain doll. “Until then, you’ll wonder. About the flowers. About my mouth. About what I’ll do to this greedy little cunt.”
He left the card from the mysterious bouquet on the vanity—blank, taunting. At the door, he paused. “Find out who sent them. Until then, you sleep in my suite tonight. I won’t touch you more than this, but I will watch you burn.”
The door shut. Vivian stood frozen, pussy throbbing, clit a needy pulse, the unsolved mystery coiling tight around the raw, unmet want Dominic had planted like a seed.
Chapter 10
The cathedral doors swung wide, and a collective intake of breath rippled through the assembled underworld. Vivian paused on the threshold, one hand resting on her father’s arm, the other clutching a cascade of black Baccara roses—Dominic’s choice, a dark mirror of the arrangement he’d sent after every performance since that first night. The gown she’d fought for skimmed her body like liquid sin: ivory silk charmeuse, cut dangerously low at the back, the plunge ending just above the twin dimples of her spine. The fabric clung to the generous swell of her hips, then fell in a subtle fishtail that exaggerated the curve of her ass with every step she took. A high slit up the left side revealed the edge of the hawk’s wing tattoo inked into her hipbone, and the thin straps of her balconette bra were visible against her shoulder blades, a deliberate provocation.
Dominic stood at the altar, his tailored black suit sharp enough to wound. The priest droned somewhere in the background, but all he could see was her. His dark gaze locked onto hers, then raked slowly, possessively down her body. He took in the swell of her breasts pressed against the deep V-neckline, the way the silk hugged the generous curve of her backside as she moved. His jaw tightened. Beneath the wool of his trousers, his cock stirred, already half-hard, and he clenched his hands at his sides to stop himself from adjusting himself in front of four hundred guests.
Vivian’s blue eyes met his, and she smiled—a slow, knowing curve. She’d felt his stare like a physical touch, and the heat blooming between her own thighs confirmed she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. The dress was a declaration: *I am yours, but I will never be tamed.*
As she reached him, her father transferred her hand with a solemn nod. Dominic’s fingers closed around hers, his grip firm, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat a rapid, traitorous rhythm. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a dark, heated whisper. “You walk down the aisle with my name on your lips, wearing a dress that shows the whole world the ass I’m going to worship tonight. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”
She tilted her head, her full lips brushing his jaw. “Every man here is looking at what’s yours. Isn’t that what you wanted? Control?”
A muscle in his cheek jumped. “My control is hanging by a thread, *cantante*. The second we’re alone, I’m going to bend you over the nearest surface and make you feel exactly how little control I have left.”
The priest cleared his throat, and they straightened. The ceremony blurred: rings exchanged, a kiss that was far too chaste for either of them, his tongue barely tasting the corner of her mouth before propriety forced him back. Vivian felt the rigid line of his cock pressed against her hip through his suit, and she bit back a moan.
As they walked back down the aisle, his hand splayed low on her bare back, fingers dipping just beneath the plunge’s edge, tracing the tattoo’s wing. She leaned into him, her ass brushing his thigh with a deliberate sway.
“The dress comes off slowly, later,” she murmured, loud enough only for him. “And you’ll watch every inch, just like you promised.”
Dominic’s growl vibrated against her spine. “I’ll watch. But I won’t be gentle.”
No one heard. The wedding night lay ahead, a promise searing the air between them, but for now, they walked out into the fading light, desire a coiled serpent in the pit of their stomachs, his control intact by a breath and a prayer.
Chapter 11
The reception hall shimmered with candlelight and murmured scandal as Dominic’s hand never left Vivian’s lower back, his fingers tracing lazy circles just above the swell of her ass. Every time a business associate approached with congratulations, his grip tightened fractionally, a possessive anchor.
“You’re leaving fingerprints on my spine,” she murmured over a flute of champagne.
“Good.” His voice was rough silk torn at the edges. “Let them see.”
She felt the tremor in his hand when she leaned forward to greet an elderly aunt, the movement pressing her backside against his thigh. A low sound escaped him—something between a growl and a prayer. When she straightened, his pupils had swallowed his irises whole.
“Dance with me,” he ordered.
On the floor, surrounded by spinning couples, he pulled her flush against him. The hard ridge of his cock pressed into her belly through layers of silk and wool. She rocked her hips once—just once—and watched color flood his cheekbones.
“If I don’t have you in the next five minutes,” he breathed into her hair, “I’m going to embarrass us both.”
She laughed softly and let him steer her toward a side door marked *Private*.
The room was a small study: leather chairs, a mahogany desk that gleamed under dim sconces. He locked the door behind them with shaking fingers.
“Turn around,” he rasped. “Let me see what’s mine.”
Vivian obliged slowly—an unhurried pivot that ended with her bent just slightly over the desk edge. The fishtail skirt hugged every generous curve; the exposed plunge of her back seemed made for his mouth.
He crossed the distance like a man starved. His hands found her ass first—rough palming that bunched silk in desperate fists.
“You don’t understand what watching you walk down that aisle did—”
She straightened abruptly and caught his wrists mid-grope.
“Stop.”
He froze instantly despite every screaming instinct demanding more contact
“What?”
Vivian met his wild eyes calmly
"No quick fucks standing up against furniture." She released one wrist long enough bracket cursive gestures around them —the desk,the half-light,the entire illicit setup—“That isn't worship.That’s rutting."
His jaw worked silently before protest emerged strangled :
"Vivian,I have waited months.I am dying here."
"You'll wait longer if necessary." Her smile carried both tenderness steel beneath it all ."You promised devotion ,Dominic.Get control again ,then come find me .Properly tonight ,on our bed ,when you can think beyond getting inside me fast."
Without waiting reply She unlocked door slipped outside leaving Dominic trembling alone amidst imported leather ghosts .
Five minutes later reception found them dancing together again proper public smile pasted onto both faces But beneath poised exterior something had shifted irrevocably between pair —
His hand was steady now when it rested possessively low on wife’ hip bone where hawk wing began
And hers barely trembled against chest feeling heartbeat slow from gallop into marching rhythm readiness
Tonight wouldn't simple conquest after all It would siege warfare properly conducted_until surrender absolute mutual onesided victory inconceivable proposition entirely
Chapter 12
The private elevator hummed its ascent toward the penthouse suite, and Dominic's hand found the small of her back as the doors slid shut. No more guests. No more champagne flutes or congratulatory handshakes.
"You were magnificent tonight," he murmured, his mouth brushing the curve of her ear. "Every man in that room wanted you. Every woman wanted to be you."
Vivian leaned into his touch, the champagne warmth now replaced by something deeper. "And what did you want?"
"To be alone with my wife." His fingers traced the zipper of her dress. "To finish what you started in that study."
The doors opened onto a corridor of polished marble, their suite at its end. He didn't wait. He swept her up, one arm beneath her knees, the other cradling her back, and carried her across the threshold.
The suite glowed with candlelight—dozens of them, flickering against floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the Manhattan skyline. Rose petals scattered the king-sized bed. But Dominic set her down before it, not on it.
"Turn around," he said, the same command from hours ago, but his voice was steady now. Controlled. "I've waited months. I can wait five more minutes."
Vivian turned, and his fingers found the zipper with deliberate slowness, dragging it down vertebra by vertebra. The dress pooled at her feet, revealing the lace balconette bra, the matching thong that barely contained her generous curves. His breath caught audibly.
"Dio mio," he rasped. "You're more than I imagined."
She faced him, challenging. "Show me what worship looks like."
He sank to his knees.
His hands gripped her hips, thumbs stroking the hawk's wing tattoo. Then his mouth found her through the lace—hot, open-mouthed kisses that made her gasp and grip his shoulders. He pulled the thong aside with his teeth.
"Dominic—"
"This ass," he growled against her skin, "has haunted me since the first time I saw you walk away from me in your father's office. Every sway. Every curve." He bit the fullest part gently. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life showing you exactly how much I want it."
He stood, shedding his jacket and shirt with fevered efficiency. The candlelight caught the ink across his chest, the hard planes of muscle, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband. When his trousers fell away, she saw it—the glint of steel through the tip of his thick cock.
"You've got a piercing," she breathed.
"You said worship requires devotion." He stepped closer, cupping her face. "I've been devoted since before you knew my name. Now lie back, wife. Let me prove it."
She sank onto the bed amidst the rose petals, and he followed, his body a warm weight above her. His mouth claimed hers—finally, properly—while his hand worked her bra free. When his lips descended to her breast, she arched into him with a moan.
"Tell me what you want," he demanded against her skin.
"Your mouth. Lower."
He obeyed with a groan that vibrated through her belly. His beard scraped her inner thighs as he settled between them, and then his tongue found her pussy with the same focused intensity he brought to boardrooms and negotiations. Slow circles. Flickering pressure. A rhythm that built and built until her thighs trembled around his head.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She did, propping herself on her elbows. The sight of him—this dangerous, powerful man—devouring her with reverent hunger nearly undid her.
"I'm close," she warned.
"Not yet." He pulled back, crawling up her body, his cock pressing against her slick entrance. "Together. I need to feel you come around me."
He pushed inside slowly—the piercing a cool, distinct pressure amidst the heat—and they both groaned. He filled her completely, stretched her, and when he began to move, it was with the same deliberate control he'd reclaimed in the study.
"Say my name," he gritted out, his forehead pressed to hers.
"Dominic," she gasped, and his rhythm faltered.
"Again."
"Dominic—oh god—"
He drove deeper, harder, his restraint crumbling with every stroke. Her nails raked his back, her hips meeting his thrust for thrust. The pressure coiled tight in her belly, then shattered—a climax that ripped through her with a broken cry of his name.
He followed three thrusts later, burying himself deep as he came with a shuddering groan, his face buried in her neck.
They lay tangled afterwards, hearts pounding in tandem. His hand traced lazy patterns on her hip, over the hawk in flight.
"Mine," he murmured against her hair.
Vivian smiled, spent and victorious.
Outside, the city glittered on, but inside the candlelit suite, the negotiations were finally complete.
Chapter 13
The first time wasn't enough.
Dominic rolled her onto her stomach before her breathing had steadied, his hands gripping the generous swell of her backside with reverent hunger.
"You have no idea what this does to me," he rasped, spreading her cheeks. "I've dreamed about this ass for months. Waking fantasies. Every time you walked away from me."
Vivian gasped into the pillow as his tongue traced where his hands had been. "Then stop talking about it and—"
He spanked her. Not hard—a warning thwack that sent heat radiating through her curves.
"I'll talk about it as much as I want, wife." His pierced cock pressed against her thigh, already hard again. "You're mine now. Every inch. Especially these."
She squirmed, half-protesting. "I'm still—sensitive—"
"Good." He flipped her again, settling between her thighs. "I want you feeling every second of this."
The second time was slower. Deeper. He watched her face as he pushed inside, that piercing a deliberate pressure that made her eyes roll back. His thumb found her clit, circling with the same focused precision he'd used in boardrooms.
"Look at me," he commanded. "I want to see you when you—"
"Dominic—"
"Not yet. Hold it."
She bit her lip, trembling. He'd reduced her to this—a woman begging with her body, every wall she'd built crumbling under his relentless worship.
"You're so fucking beautiful when you're desperate," he murmured, lowering his mouth to her breast. "Come for me now."
She shattered with a sob, and he followed, groaning her name into her skin.
Chapter 14
The third time was against the floor-to-ceiling windows, her palms and breasts pressed flat against the cool glass as he drove into her from behind. The Manhattan skyline blurred through her tears of overstimulation.
"You're taking me so well," he growled against her ear, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangled in her damp hair. "This perfect fucking ass. Mine."
"Dominic—I can't—"
"You can. You will." His thrusts slowed to a torturous drag, the piercing catching with each withdrawal. "How many times have I made you come tonight?"
"Three," she gasped. "Four—I don't know anymore."
"Then you'll give me one more."
The fourth time was in the marble shower, steam billowing around them as he lifted her against the wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her nails raked down his ink-covered back. The water cascaded over their joined bodies as she rode the edge of another peak.
"I'm going to feel you for days," she whispered, mouthing at the column of his throat.
"That's the point, *cantante*."
Chapter 15
Dawn painted the bedroom in shades of rose and gold when she finally collapsed against his chest, utterly spent. Every muscle ached. Her thighs were slick, her core throbbing with the delicious memory of his relentless worship.
Dominic traced idle patterns on her shoulder blade. "The jet leaves at noon."
"Mm." She couldn't form words yet.
"Your apartment—I've arranged for packers this morning. Everything will be shipped to the villa in Lake Como."
Vivian's eyes flew open. She pushed up onto her elbows, staring down at him. "What?"
"Your things. Clothes, sheet music, that hideous ceramic cat you keep by the bathroom sink." His dark eyes were unreadable. "They're being moved to Italy. Our home."
"You—" She sat up fully, the sheet pooling at her waist. "You didn't ask me."
"I'm telling you now."
"My apartment. My life in New York. The opera house—"
"Will still be here when you need to perform. But your home is with me now." His hand found her hip, thumb stroking the hawk's wing tattoo. "I told you, Vivian. Every inch of you is mine. That includes your address."
She should be furious. The dominant, stubborn woman who'd carved her career from nothing should rage at this unilateral decision. Instead, her traitorous body shivered at the possessive certainty in his voice.
"And if I refuse?" she challenged, chin lifting.
Dominic's beard-roughened jaw curved into that dangerous not-quite-smile. "Then I'll spend our entire honeymoon convincing you. Starting with round five."
Chapter 16
Vivian tore the sheet from her body and stood, the cool penthouse air pebbling her skin. She didn’t bother to cover herself—let him see the fury tightening her jaw, the blue fire in her eyes.
“You had no right,” she bit out, every syllable a shard of glass. “My apartment. My career. My life. And you just—decided. Without a single word to me.”
Dominic remained propped against the headboard, unashamed of his nakedness, his spent cock resting against his thigh. The piercing glinted in the morning light. He watched her with the maddening calm of a man who’d already won.
“I told you last night,” he said. “Our home is in Italy. That wasn’t a negotiation, Vivian. It was a fact.”
“A fact you should have discussed with your wife before hiring movers.” She snatched his discarded shirt from the floor and pulled it on, the fine cotton swallowing her curves but doing nothing to hide the trembling in her hands. “I’m not some piece of luggage you pack and ship at your convenience.”
His expression didn’t change, but something dark flickered in his gaze. “You are my wife. And your place is with me. The discussion happened when you agreed to marry me. Everything else is logistics.”
“Logistics?” She laughed, bitter and sharp. “You’re a fucking tyrant.”
“Language,” he murmured, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “And yes. When it comes to you, I am exactly that. You knew what I was the day you took that ring back.”
Vivian’s chest heaved. He was right, damn him. She had known. But knowing and accepting were not the same thing when your entire world was being dismantled without your say.
“I should have been part of that decision,” she said, quieter now but no less fierce. “You want to own every inch of me? Then respect the inches that matter—the ones between my ears.”
Dominic rose then, all coiled muscle and predatory grace. He didn’t touch her, just loomed close enough that the heat of him washed over her, and that infuriating, electrifying need coiled low in her belly.
“I do respect you,” he said, voice dropping to that graveled register that made her thighs clench. “But the decision is final. You’ll board that jet, and you’ll come home with me. And I’ll spend every day proving that I’m not just your husband—I’m your sanctuary. Whether you like it or not.”
She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him. The war inside her was a hurricane, and he stood at its eye, utterly unmoved.
“This isn’t over,” she warned.
“No,” he agreed, something like a promise darkening his eyes. “It’s only just beginning.”
Chapter 17
The Gulfstream's engines hummed at cruising altitude, a white-noise cocoon thirty-thousand feet above the Atlantic. Vivian sat rigid in her leather seat, arms crossed beneath her breasts, staring at the clouds through the oval window. She hadn't spoken a word since the car. Hadn't looked at him. The emerald silk of her travel dress— Dominic's choice, delivered that morning with a note that read *Wear this* —mocked her compliance.
Dominic watched her from the opposite seat, his laptop abandoned, a glass of bourbon in his hand. The silence was a living thing, a third passenger in the cabin. He'd let her stew for an hour. Now, the curve of her ass pressed against the leather, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she refused to acknowledge him—it gnawed at his control.
"You're being childish," he said.
Nothing. Not even a flinch.
He rose, crossed the narrow aisle, and leaned down. His finger traced the bare skin of her shoulder, just above the dress's neckline. A deliberate, possessive poke.
"There's a bedroom in the back. We could—"
The slap cracked through the cabin before he finished the sentence. Vivian was on her feet, blue eyes blazing, her palm still stinging from the impact against his cheek. The red mark bloomed on his stubbled skin.
"You arrogant son of a bitch!" Her chest heaved. "You dismantle my life, drag me onto this plane like cargo, and now you want to fuck? I'm not your whore, Dominic. I'm your wife, and you will *respect* that!"
She drew back to hit him again. His hand moved faster—a blur of motion, snatching her wrist mid-air. His grip was iron, unbreakable, but not painful. He pulled her against him, their bodies colliding, her breasts crushed against his chest.
"Hit me once," he growled, his voice a low vibration she felt in her bones. "I'll allow that. You earned it. But twice?" His free hand came up, fingers threading into her hair, tilting her head back. "That's a lesson you'll learn on your knees."
"Go to hell," she spat, but her voice wavered.
"I'm already there, *cantante*. Burning for you." He released her wrist and cupped her ass through the silk, both hands gripping the generous flesh he'd worshipped all night. "You want me to respect you? Then respect this—you are mine, and I don't let what's mine slip away. Not your career. Not your safety. Not your body."
Vivian's pulse hammered in her throat. The anger was still there, a hot coal in her chest, but beneath it—the familiar, treacherous flood of arousal. His erection pressed against her belly. His pupils were blown wide, the bourbon and desire darkening his gaze.
"You can't just poke me and expect me to spread my legs," she whispered, her fingers curling into his shirt. "I'm a diva, remember? I make you work for it."
A sound rumbled from his chest—not quite a laugh, not quite a growl. "Then work I shall."
He walked her backward, through the cabin, past the leather seats, until her spine hit the polished wood of the bedroom door. His mouth descended on hers—not gentle, not asking. Taking. His tongue pushed past her lips, tasting her gasp, while his hands worked the zipper of her dress. The silk pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but the emerald lace balconette and matching thong he'd had delivered with the dress.
Dominic broke the kiss, stepping back to look at her. The plane hummed around them. His cheek still bore her handprint.
"On the bed," he commanded. "Face down."
She hesitated, her dominant instinct warring with the molten heat between her thighs. Then she turned, crawled onto the bed, and pressed her cheek to the cool sheets. The thong was a dark slash against her pale skin, her big ass presented to him like an offering.
He didn't speak. The silence stretched, agonizing, until she felt the mattress dip with his weight. His hands found the clasp of her bra first, unhooking it, sliding the straps down her arms. Then his knuckles traced the waistband of her thong, dragging it slowly over her hips, down her thighs, off her ankles.
"I told you," Dominic murmured, his voice rough with want, "I worship this body. Every inch. Especially the inches you hate."
His palm cracked against her right cheek—a sharp, stinging spank that made her gasp and buck against the mattress. Then another. And another, each one landing on a different spot, spreading the heat until her skin glowed pink and her cunt dripped onto the sheets.
"Count," he demanded.
"One," she moaned, when the next slap landed.
"Louder."
"Two! Three! Four!" Each number was a surrender, a crack in her armor. By ten, she was sobbing with need, her hips grinding into nothing, her pussy clenching around emptiness.
Then his mouth was on her, his beard scratching the sensitized skin of her ass as he kissed the welts he'd made. His tongue traced the curve of her cheek, dipping lower, teasing the cleft before sliding down to her soaked folds. He ate her from behind with single-minded devotion, his piercing dragging against her clit with every stroke of his tongue.
"Dominic—fuck—please—"
He pulled back just long enough to shed his trousers, and then his cock was pressing against her entrance, the metal barbell a cool shock against her heat. He pushed inside in one ruthless thrust, filling her completely, his hips slapping against her reddened ass.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" He fucked her hard, each stroke driving deeper, his fingers gripping her hips. "Not a tame husband. Not a docile man. You wanted this—the fight, the fury, the—" he groaned, his rhythm stuttering "—the fire."
"Yes," she keened, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts. "Yes, yes, god, yes—"
Her orgasm hit like a detonation, a white-hot explosion that ripped through every nerve. She screamed his name, her pussy convulsing around his cock, and he followed her over the edge with a guttural roar, his release flooding her in hot pulses.
They collapsed together, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and heaving breath. Dominic gathered her against his chest, his lips pressing against her hair.
"That's my diva," he murmured.
Vivian laughed, weak and spent. "Don't think this means I've forgiven you."
"I'd be disappointed if you had." His arms tightened around her. "We have a lifetime for you to stay furious."
Outside the window, the clouds stretched to infinity, and somewhere below, Italy was rising to meet them.
Chapter 18
The Maserati wound through cypress-lined roads, ancient stone walls blurring past tinted windows. Vivian sat rigid, arms crossed, the emerald dress now wrinkled from the plane. Dominic's hand rested on her thigh—possessive, immovable. She didn't shake it off. That would require acknowledging him.
The villa emerged from the Tuscan hillside like a golden fortress, its terracotta roofs catching the late afternoon sun. Three stories of weathered stone, wisteria climbing the eastern wall, a fountain in the courtyard where water sang over marble. It was obscenely beautiful. She hated it immediately.
"Home," Dominic said, squeezing her thigh.
"It's a prison," she corrected, staring straight ahead.
"A prison with a recording studio." He killed the engine, turning to face her. Those dark eyes flickered with something dangerous—not anger. Anticipation. "You've been composing on hotel pianos and backstage warm-up rooms for years. I knew that before I heard your name. Before I saw your face."
Vivian's jaw tightened. "Don't pretend this is about my art."
"It's always been about your art." He opened his door, circling the car to open hers. When she didn't move, he leaned down, one hand braced on the roof, the other tilting her chin up. "I heard you sing Violetta three years ago. I went home and couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Couldn't fuck without hearing your voice in my head. So yes, *cantante*—this is about your art. Everything I've done is because your voice crawled into my chest and made a home there."
She slapped his hand away, but her fingers trembled. "Fine. Show me this grand gesture. Then we'll discuss how you dragged me across an ocean without consent."
He led her through the villa's marble foyer, past frescoed ceilings and antique furnishings, up a curved staircase. The door at the end of the hall was unremarkable—heavy oak, iron hinges. He paused with his hand on the latch.
"I had acousticians from Milan design this room. The soundproofing alone cost more than most people's homes." His voice dropped, rough with something she couldn't name. "I've never brought anyone here. Not contractors. Not staff. I finished the final touches myself."
He pushed the door open.
Vivian stepped inside and forgot how to breathe.
The room soared two stories high, its ceiling a dome painted with midnight-blue constellations. One wall was entirely glass, overlooking the Tuscan valley—golden hills, silver olive groves, a ribbon of river in the distance. The opposite wall held floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with scores: Verdi, Puccini, Mozart, contemporary composers she'd mentioned in interviews years ago. A Steinway grand piano dominated the center, its lid raised like a dark wing. In the corner, a state-of-the-art recording booth with mixing equipment she'd only dreamed of affording.
"You remembered," she whispered, her fury cracking. "The Steinway. I said in an interview once that I'd sell my soul for one."
"You said it was the only instrument that could hold your voice." Dominic stood behind her, his reflection ghosting in the window. "I don't want your soul, Vivian. I want your voice. I want your body. I want your rage and your brilliance and every note you've ever sung or will sing. This room is where you'll practice. Compose. Record. It's yours—no strings, no demands. You come here when you want, sing what you want."
She turned, and for the first time since the engagement, her blue eyes held something other than defiance. Fear, maybe. Or the terrifying realization that he understood her—not just her body, but the thing she'd built her entire identity around.
"You think a room full of expensive equipment makes up for—"
"No." He stepped closer, backing her against the piano. "I don't think it makes up for anything. I think it's what you deserve. And I think you're furious because you can't dismiss it as another cage."
Her hands gripped the piano's edge, knuckles whitening. "You're a manipulative bastard."
"I'm a man who's been obsessed with you for three years." His mouth hovered over hers, not quite touching. "Every aria. Every interview. Every photograph. I've memorized the way your throat moves when you hit a high C. The way your hips shift when you're nervous. The exact shade of blue your eyes turn when you're about to cry."
"I'm not crying," she said, voice cracking traitorously.
"No. You're deciding whether to kiss me or kill me." His hand slid up her thigh, pushing the emerald silk higher. "Choose, *cantante*. I'll accept either."
She kissed him—hard, biting, her fingers fisting in his shirt. The piano let out a discordant chime as her hip struck the keys. He lifted her onto the Steinway's closed lid, stepping between her thighs, his erection grinding against her through his trousers.
"You planned this," she gasped against his mouth. "The room. The piano. You knew I'd—"
"I hoped." He yanked the dress over her head, leaving her in the emerald balconette and thong. His mouth moved down her throat, teeth scraping her pulse point. "I've imagined fucking you on this piano since the day I ordered it."
"So fuck me already." She fumbled with his belt, his zipper, her dominant streak flaring even as she surrendered. "Stop talking about it and do it."
He laughed—a dark, delighted sound—and pulled her thong aside. His cock sprang free, the barbell piercing catching the light. He dragged the metal ball through her slick folds, teasing her clit, watching her eyes flutter.
"Look at the valley," he commanded, turning her head toward the window. "Look at everything I've given you and know that you're still the one with the power."
She looked—the golden hills, the ancient land, the empire he'd built—and then she looked back at him, her blue eyes defiant. "I've always known that. You're just catching up."
He thrust inside her in one brutal stroke, filling her completely. Vivian cried out, her back arching, her palms slamming against the piano lid. The sound reverberated through the room, a bass note that vibrated in her bones.
"Sing for me," he growled, fucking her hard against the Steinway. "Let me hear you."
She couldn't form words, let alone melody—just broken moans and gasps as his piercing hit that spot deep inside her with every thrust. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. The piano groaned beneath them, a percussive counterpoint to their rhythm.
"That's it," he rasped, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangling in her hair. "That's my diva. Come on my cock. Now."
The command shattered her. Vivian screamed—a raw, unpolished sound that was nothing like opera but the most honest note she'd ever produced. Her pussy clamped around him, muscles contracting in waves, and she felt his release flood her in hot pulses as he roared her name against her throat.
They collapsed together on the piano, chests heaving, the sunset painting their sweat-slicked skin in shades of gold and rose. Dominic pressed his forehead to hers, still buried inside her, his breath ragged.
"Welcome home," he murmured.
Vivian laughed—a wet, exhausted, furious laugh. "I still hate you."
"I know." He kissed her, soft this time. "The studio's soundproofed. You can scream at me all night without disturbing the valley."
"I might."
"Good." He pulled out slowly, both of them groaning at the loss. "But first—dinner. Then you can yell at me. Then I'm taking you to our bedroom and making you come again until you forget why you were angry."
She sat up, still trembling, and looked around the room he'd built for her voice. The scores. The piano. The view of a country she'd never planned to call home.
"I won't forget," she said quietly.
"I know that too." Dominic offered his hand. "That's why I'll spend every day reminding you that you chose this. Chose me. Not because of the merger. Not because of the room. Because three years ago, you sang Violetta, and I became yours whether you wanted me or not."
Vivian took his hand. "You're still a manipulative bastard."
"And you're still a diva." He pulled her to her feet, steadying her when her legs wobbled. "We're perfectly matched."
They walked out of the studio together, leaving the piano silent behind them, the valley stretching gold into the evening. Somewhere distant, a church bell tolled. In the villa's kitchen, staff prepared a meal they wouldn't eat. And in the master bedroom, fresh sheets waited for a night neither of them would sleep.
The war wasn't over. But the battlefield had just become a home.
Chapter 19
Dawn crept over the Tuscan hills, painting the bedroom in shades of honey and rose. Vivian lay tangled in silk sheets, her body still humming from the night before—three rounds, each more brutal than the last, Dominic's piercing dragging her to edges she hadn't known existed. He was already awake, phone pressed to his ear, standing naked by the window. The morning light caught the ink sprawling across his back—a phoenix, wings spanning his shoulder blades, flames licking down his spine.
"No, the shipment from Valencia needs to clear customs by Wednesday," Dominic said, his voice low and clipped. "If Marco gives you trouble, remind him who owns his debt. And tell him I said those exact words."
Vivian stretched deliberately, letting the sheet slip below her breasts. His eyes cut to her, dark and hungry, even as he continued speaking.
"The Ricci situation—yes, I saw the report. Tell Vincent to keep eyes on the youngest son. He's reckless, and recklessness creates messes." A pause. "No. No violence unless absolutely necessary. I won't have my honeymoon interrupted by unnecessary clean-up."
She slid out of bed, padding naked across the marble floor. Her thighs ached pleasantly, her ass still bearing the faint red marks of his palms from when he'd bent her over the piano bench at two in the morning. She pressed herself against his back, her full breasts flattening against the phoenix's wings, her lips brushing his shoulder blade.
Dominic's breath hitched. His free hand reached back, gripping her hip hard.
"The villa staff," he continued, voice rougher now, "tell Maria to prepare the east wing. My wife will want the garden studio open by the time we return. Fresh flowers. Gardenias. She mentioned them once in an interview six months ago."
Vivian's teeth grazed his skin. *Six months ago.* He'd been cataloging her long before the merger.
"And Enzo—" Dominic's voice dropped to something lethal, "—if anyone, *anyone*, disturbs us this week who isn't confirming my mother's death or a federal indictment, I will personally ensure their next business meeting is with the bottom of the Arno. Is that clear?"
A pause. Whatever Enzo said on the other end must have been satisfactory, because Dominic grunted and ended the call, tossing the phone onto a nearby armchair.
"You're distracting me," he said, turning to face her. His cock was already half-hard, the barbell glinting.
"Good." She dragged her nails down his chest. "Who's Enzo? Your second?"
"My *consigliere*. He handles what I can't while I'm buried inside my wife for a week." Dominic's hands slid down her back, cupping her ass, lifting her onto her toes. "I just told him that if anyone fucks with my business, they'll be swimming with cement shoes. And if anyone fucks with my *wife*, I'll skip the cement and handle it personally."
"Romantic." She bit his lower lip. "What else did you tell him?"
"That the Valencia shipment is worth three million. That the Ricci boy needs watching. That my wife likes gardenias and that the east wing studio better be ready when we return." He walked her backward toward the bed. "And that I'm unavailable. Completely. For seven days."
"Seven days of what, exactly?"
Dominic pushed her onto the mattress, following her down, his body covering hers. "Seven days of this." He kissed her throat. "And this." His mouth moved lower, tongue circling her nipple. "And whatever else I decide."
"You decided nothing," she gasped, arching into his mouth. "I'm not one of your shipments."
"No." He looked up at her, dark eyes blazing. "You're the entire fucking empire. Now spread your legs, *cantante*. The honeymoon starts now."
Chapter 20
The private jet touched down with a softness that belied its size, and Vivian pressed her forehead against the window, expecting the rolling hills of Tuscany. Instead, impossible turquoise water stretched to the horizon, dotted with emerald atolls ringed by white sand. Her breath caught.
"Dominic." She turned, finding him watching her with that infuriating, knowing smirk. "You said Italy."
"I lied." He unbuckled his seatbelt with deliberate slowness, crossing the cabin to kneel before her. His hands slid up her bare calves, pushing the silk robe aside. "I told you the Maldives were for moguls and Instagram influencers. I wanted the surprise to hit harder."
"You manipulative bastard." But her voice wavered, her thighs parting instinctively as his fingers traced higher. "How long have you planned this?"
"Since the night you threw my ring across the foyer." His thumb found the edge of her panties, already damp. "You said I had to earn you. I took it seriously."
The heat that followed wasn't gentle. He yanked the lace aside, two fingers plunging into her cunt without preamble. Vivian gasped, her head falling back against the leather seat.
"The villa has an overwater bungalow," he murmured against her knee, his fingers working her with brutal precision. "Glass floor so you can watch the reef while I fuck you. Butler service. A pool that opens to the lagoon." His thumb circled her clit. "And a bed big enough for whatever I decide to do to you."
"I haven't agreed to any of it," she managed, but her hips were rolling, grinding against his hand.
"You agreed the moment you got on that plane." He withdrew his fingers, sucking them clean with obscene relish. "Now get up. I want you naked in the bungalow within fifteen minutes, or I'll fuck you on the dock where the staff can hear."
Chapter 21
The bungalow was obscene—all teak and white linen, the Indian Ocean visible through the glass panel beneath the king-sized bed. Vivian barely registered the champagne chilling in a silver bucket before Dominic had her pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, her palms flat against the warm glass.
"Look at the water," he commanded, kicking her ankles apart. "Look at it while I take what's mine."
She heard the slide of his zipper, felt the thick head of his cock notch against her entrance. The piercing was cool, then gone as he thrust home in one savage stroke.
"Fuck—" The word tore from her throat. He was relentless, pounding into her from behind, one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping the generous curve of her hip.
"This ass," he grunted, punctuating the word with a thrust that made her see stars. "You think it's a flaw. I think it's the reason I can't fucking concentrate in business meetings." He pulled her hair, arching her back. "Say it. Say you know I worship every inch of you."
"I know—God, Dominic, I know—" The glass was fogging beneath her hands, the reef below a blur of color. He drove deeper, the barbell dragging against that perfect spot inside her, and she shattered—a desperate, keening cry as her climax ripped through her, her cunt clenching around him in spasms.
"Good girl," he rasped, and then he was following, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural roar, his release flooding her in hot pulses. They collapsed against the glass, panting, the ocean stretching endless before them.
"I hate how well you play me," she whispered.
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, still buried inside her. "I know. That's why this works."
Chapter 22
The Maldives blurred into a fever dream of salt and skin.
Dominic took her on the private deck under a hammering sun, the teak burning her knees as he drove into her from behind, his grip iron on her hips. "You're dripping down your thighs," he grunted, thumb pressing against the tight clench of her ass. "Look at you. Fucking perfect."
"You're so full of yourself," she gasped, but she pushed back against him, taking him deeper, the pierce dragging that electric edge inside her.
He pulled out before she could tip over, flipping her onto her back. "Not yet." His mouth descended on her clit, tongue working in brutal, precise strokes while his fingers plunged into her cunt. She came with a scream that scattered seabirds.
They drank champagne in the infinity pool afterward, bubbles popping against heated skin. He passed her sliced mango from his fingers, watched her lips close around the fruit. "Eat," he commanded softly. "You'll need your strength."
She did.
That night he bent her over the dining table, seafood risotto forgotten, and fucked her until the legs scraped grooves into the floor. The chandelier trembled.
"I love watching you take it," he rasped against her ear as she clutched the mahogany edge. "All of it. Every inch I give you."
"Give me more then." The challenge was shaky but real.
He laughed—dark and pleased—and gave it to her harder, one hand snaking around to grind against her clit until she shattered again, a broken litany of his name falling from her lips.
When he finally let himself go, pulling out just enough to spill across the generous swell of her ass in hot white ropes, the sound he made was almost reverent.
"Mine," he breathed, tracing a finger through the mess. "Every fucking curve."
She lay there panting, still hungry for more even as exhaustion clawed at the edges of consciousness.
The honeymoon continued—endless days of claiming and reclaiming—and Vivian stopped counting how many times she came apart beneath his hands.
Chapter 23
The glass wall was cold against her bare back, a shocking contrast to the Maldives heat outside and the furnace of Dominic's body pinning her there.
"You feel that?" He lifted her against the pane, her legs wrapping instinct around his waist. "The whole ocean is watching you get fucked."
His pierced cock split her open in one merciless thrust, and Vivian cried out, palms slapping the glass for balance. The barbell dragged along her inner walls, that brutal little accent she still wasn't used to.
"Look down," he commanded, lips brushing her ear. "Watch yourself take it."
She did. The sight was obscene—her pussy stretched around him, glistening, hungry.
"I'm going to do things to this body tonight," he murmured, rolling his hips slow and deep. "Things that'll make you forget your own name. First, I'm going to fill every hole. Then I'm going to flip you over and lick you clean. Then I'm going to start all over again."
"Fuck," she breathed.
"Not yet." He pulled out abruptly, letting her slide down the glass on trembling legs. "Turn around. Hands on the window."
She obeyed, and his palm cracked across her right cheek before she'd fully braced. The sting bloomed hot and immediate.
"Count."
"One."
Another, lower, where thigh met ass. "Two."
He painted her cheeks crimson, alternating sides, pausing to knead the burning flesh between strikes. By twelve she was dripping down her thighs, every nerve ending screaming.
"Good girl." He dropped to his knees behind her, spreading her wide. "Now I'm going to make you come so hard you see stars."
His mouth sealed over her clit, tongue flicking mercilessly while two fingers plunged into her cunt. The combination of the spanking's residual fire and his expert mouth sent her spiraling within seconds.
"Dominic—" She shattered against his face, hands squeaking down the glass, thighs quaking.
He didn't stop. Just growled against her sensitive flesh and kept devouring her through the climax until she was boneless, held upright only by his grip on her hips and the window at her cheek.
Chapter 24
Dominic woke to the sound of her voice—a cascade of warm, liquid notes pouring through the open terrace doors. For a groggy moment, he thought it was a recording, some rehearsal track she’d left playing. Then the voice bent into a sharp, agile run, scaling octaves with the precision that had first seized him by the throat in that opera house. Real. Live. *Her.*
He didn’t move. He lay on his back in the tangled white sheets, still naked, the salt of last night’s sweat dried on his skin. The sun was just breaking, turning the Maldives sea into a sheet of hammered platinum beyond the glass. And there, on the private terrace, stood his wife.
Vivian wore a silk robe the color of champagne, loose and slipping off one shoulder as she lifted her chin to the sky. Her brown hair was a messy knot, her bare feet planted firm. She ran through scales, her diaphragm rising and falling beneath the robe’s thin fabric, and he could see the outline of her full breasts, the gentle swell of her belly, and lower—the generous curve of her ass that the robe couldn’t hide. His cock twitched, a reflexive response to the sight. But something else tightened in his chest, a deeper clench that had nothing to do with lust.
He listened. Really listened. The notes weren’t just sound; they were pieces of her soul, disciplined and wild at once. He’d first heard that voice and wanted to own it, to own her. The merger, the ring, the fucking honeymoon—they’d been the trophies of a conqueror. But somewhere between the spankings and the whispered devotions, the lines had blurred. Now, as she held a high C with effortless glory, Dominic felt a raw, unfamiliar ache. This wasn’t obsession. This was love. The kind that fucking terrified him.
Vivian finished her run, letting the final note hang in the salt-tinged air before she turned, catching his gaze through the glass. Her blue eyes, still soft from sleep, narrowed with a playful challenge. “You’re awake. Spying on me, Mr. Moretti?”
She padded inside, the robe swishing around her thick thighs. Dominic propped himself on his elbows, not bothering to cover his body. “Listening. There’s a difference. Your voice is the best fucking sound I’ve ever heard, *cantante*. Better than your moans last night, and that’s saying something.”
She snorted, but a blush crept up her chest. “You’re still crude in the morning.” She stopped at the foot of the bed, tilting her head. “You were staring pretty hard for a man just listening.”
“Guilty.” He let his gaze drop to her curves, then back to her face. “I was thinking about how I got here. The first time I heard you sing, I told myself I had to have you. Like a collector spotting a masterpiece. But now…” He paused, the words heavier than he expected. “Now I realize I don’t just want to own you. I fucking love you, Vivian. It’s not a deal anymore. It’s not an obsession. It’s you. Just you.”
Her lips parted. For a beat, the only sound was the distant surf. Then she climbed onto the bed, crawling over him with a deliberate, catlike grace, her robe falling open to reveal the hawk tattoo on her hip and the shaved softness of her pussy. She straddled his thighs, her weight settling warm and solid.
“Say it again,” she demanded, her voice a smoky contralto that made his cock surge.
“I love you.” He reached up, cupping the back of her neck, pulling her down until their foreheads touched. “I fucking love you, Vivian Rossi. And I’ll spend every day proving it, even when you’re being a stubborn brat.”
She laughed, a rare, genuine sound that cracked her serious mask. “I’m not a brat. I’m a diva. Get it right.”
“Fine. My diva.” He kissed her, slow and deep, tasting the morning on her tongue. His hands roamed her back, down to the swell of her ass, squeezing with the reverence he’d always given that part of her. “I still worship this, by the way. That hasn’t changed.”
“Good,” she murmured against his mouth. “Because I’d hate to lose your oral devotion.”
He rumbled, rolling them so she was beneath him, the robe rucked up around her waist. He kissed a path down her throat, between her breasts, stopping to circle one taut nipple with his tongue. “I could eat your pussy right now,” he said, voice thick. “But I want to take my time. Last night was about fucking hard. This morning is about loving you.”
Vivian arched under him, her fingers threading into his hair. “Love me slowly, then. But don’t keep me waiting forever.”
“No promises.” He grinned, settling his hips between her thighs, the barbell in his cock pressing against her slick folds but not entering. He just rocked there, teasing, as he looked into her eyes. The sea wind drifted through the open door, carrying the promise of a day they’d fill with more words, more touches, more of this terrifying, beautiful thing they’d built from a bargain.
For now, he simply stayed there, hard and wanting, letting the love and the lust twist into something sacred. And for the first time, Vivian didn’t push or demand. She just held his gaze, her own softening, and whispered, “Okay, Dominic. Okay.”
Chapter 25
The Cessna’s wheels touched down on the private airstrip just outside Naples with a shudder that felt final. Vivian smoothed the travel creases from her linen trousers, eyes still heavy from the eighteen-hour flight. Beside her, Dominic had already transformed. The lazy, post-coital lover of the Maldives was gone. In his place: a man carved from stone, thumb already flying across a secure phone, jaw set. He hadn’t touched her in hours. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to.
A blacked-out convoy idled on the tarmac. Enzo, Dominic’s underboss, opened the armored Mercedes’ door with a grim nod. The air smelled of dust, diesel, and the faint, sweet rot of overripe lemons. No welcome. Just business.
Dominic slid in first, and Vivian followed, the leather seat creaking under her. He didn’t look at her. “Give me the damage,” he ordered, voice flat.
Enzo twisted from the front passenger seat, tablet in hand. “Three hits since you left. The Minetti crew tried to muscle into the port operations—Sunday night, they torched two of our warehouses. Lost about four million in goods. No casualties yet, but they’re testing the perimeter. Your absence was noticed.”
Dominic’s fingers drummed once on his thigh. “And?”
“We intercepted a shipment of their girls. Russians, underfed. Filippo had them sent to the safe house near Caserta. He’s waiting for your decision. The cops are sniffing around the warehouse fires, but nothing we can’t bury with a few payouts.”
Vivian watched her husband’s profile. No flicker of the man who had whispered *I love you* while rocking inside her. This was the beast the marriage contract had never mentioned—the cold, efficient predator. Her stomach tightened, but not with fear. Something else, something darker.
“What else?” Dominic bit out.
Enzo hesitated. “There’s a whisper. A new player. Nobody’s seen his face, but he’s been buying up influence in Rome. He’s calling himself ‘Il Corvo’—the Crow. He sent flowers to the opera house opening night. White roses. With a card.”
“What did the card say?” Dominic’s voice dropped to something lethal.
“‘For the singer. A taste of what’s to come.’”
Vivian’s heart lurched. The anonymous flowers from her dressing room, the ones that had unnerved her before the wedding. She hadn’t told Dominic about them. Her silence now felt like a betrayal. Dominic turned to her, finally, his dark eyes promising a reckoning not just for the Crow, but for her omission.
“Drive,” he commanded. “I want every piece of information on this fucking crow by midnight. And get me Filippo.”
The convoy pulled out, and the tension in the car was thicker than the Neapolitan heat. Vivian stared at Dominic’s clenched fist, knowing that when the door of their Italian home closed behind them, the battle for control would start all over again—and this time, the stakes were more than just her body.
Chapter 26
The villa's massive oak doors slammed behind them, the echo ricocheting through the marble foyer. Dominic didn't pause to admire the frescoed ceilings or the glittering chandeliers. His hand found the small of Vivian's back—not guiding, but propelling—through the corridor, up the curved staircase, past servants who melted into doorways at the sight of his face.
Their bedroom door had barely clicked shut when he rounded on her.
"The flowers." His voice was a blade wrapped in silk. "Enzo mentioned them in the car. You didn't."
Vivian shrugged off her linen blazer, tossing it onto the velvet chaise with practiced indifference. "Because it's nothing. Some admirer with poor boundaries. It happens at the opera house constantly."
"Nothing?" Dominic stalked closer, his bulk blocking the dim lamplight. "A man who calls himself 'Il Corvo' sends my wife white roses with a threat, and you call that nothing?"
"I call it your world, not mine." She turned to face him, chin lifted, those blue eyes flashing with the same fire that had first ensnared him. "Remember our original arrangement, Dominic? I sing. I warm your bed. I don't get dragged into mafia vendettas. Those were your terms when you bought me from my father like chattel."
The word *bought* hit him like a slap. His jaw tightened, the muscle leaping beneath his beard. "You are my wife now. Everything that threatens you is my business."
"No." Vivian stepped closer, close enough that her breasts brushed his chest, close enough that her perfume—jasmine and something darker—filled his lungs. "I didn't ask for this life. I didn't ask for warehouses set on fire or girls being trafficked or some crow leaving me cryptic fucking messages. I wanted to sing. You wanted to own me. Don't pretend this marriage was ever about partnership."
His hands found her hips, fingers digging into the generous curve of her backside through the linen trousers. Possessive. Desperate. Furious. "You think this is about ownership right now? Someone is targeting you specifically. That's not business—that's war."
"Then fight your war." She didn't pull away, but her voice dropped to something cold and final. "Leave me out of it. I'm not your soldier. I'm not your informant. I'm the woman you fuck, Dominic. Nothing more."
The lie hung between them, heavy and obvious. They both knew she was so much more than that. But he saw the fear beneath her defiance now—not of the Crow, but of losing herself entirely to his world.
His grip on her ass tightened. "You're everything," he growled, voice cracking. "And I will burn every motherfucker who threatens that to ash."
Chapter 27
The studio door clicked shut behind her like a chamber lock, sealing Vivian inside the one room that was unequivocally hers. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined the far wall, a grand piano brooded in the corner, and three walls of acoustically treated panels drank every sound she made. She kicked off her heels, the marble floor cold against her bare soles, and walked to the center of the polished ebony floor.
She didn't bother with the piano. Her body was the instrument tonight.
The silk of her emerald wrap dress grew too heavy, too restrictive. With one fluid motion, she unhooked the clasp at her hip and let the fabric slither down her shoulders, past the swell of her breasts clad in black lace, over the generous curve of her waist, until it pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it, leaving it abandoned like shed skin.
Standing in only her balconette bra and matching thong, she caught her reflection. The hawk's wing tattoo curled up from her hip toward her ribs, dark ink against bronze skin. Behind her, the mirror revealed what she'd always hidden—the full, rounded weight of her backside, barely contained by the thin strip of lace disappearing between her cheeks. For once, she didn't look away.
She started as a low hum, a vibration deep in her chest so resonant it seemed to shake the glass.
Outside, in the shadowed corridor, Dominic stood frozen. He'd followed her—had meant to force another conversation, to make her see reason. But at the first note of that hum, his hand had stopped inches from the door. Through the narrow gap, he watched.
He watched her release a warm-up scale, the notes sliding from her belly through her throat, each one making her spine arch and her ribs expand. Then she began to sing in earnest—not an aria, but something raw and wordless, a keening melody that was equal parts grief and defiance, pouring from her mouth like smoke.
She moved as she sang. Her hips rolled in a slow, sinuous circle. Her hands rose to cup her own breasts over the lace, squeezing hard enough that Dominic saw her knuckles whiten. Her fingers pinched her nipples through the fabric, wrenching a broken note from her that made his cock jerk against his trousers.
"Fuck," he breathed, barely audible.
She heard nothing. She was inside the sound, letting it consume her frustration, her fear, her rage against his world and the crow who'd invaded it. One hand slid down her belly, pressing flat against the heat between her thighs. The other braced against the piano, supporting her as she bent forward slightly, giving him an obscene view of her ass as she ground her palm against her cunt through the soaked silk.
Her voice climbed, ragged now, breathy. "Dominic," she sang, the name stretching into three syllables, part curse, part invocation.
He had to grip the doorframe to keep from bursting in. His jealousy spiked—not at another man, but at her own hands touching what belonged to him. She was doing this to spite him, to prove she needed no one. But her body betrayed her. Her thighs trembled. Her nipples peaked hard against the lace. Her mouth fell open on a high, keening note as her fingers slid beneath the thong and found her slick folds.
"Look at me, Vivian," he whispered through the crack, though she couldn't hear. "Look at your husband while you make yourself come."
Her head fell back, lips parted, a guttural moan spilling out as she worked two fingers inside herself. Her other hand flew to the piano for balance as her hips bucked against her touch. Her singing devolved into gasps, syllables of nonsense, and then—
She screamed his name, raw and shattered, as her body convulsed. Her back arched impossibly, her inner walls clenching around her own fingers, a flood of wetness soaking her hand and sliding down her inner thigh. She rode the orgasm in full view of the mirror, in full view of him, her ass clenching with each spasm.
In the corridor, Dominic pressed his forehead against the jamb, his breath ragged, his cock so hard it ached. He hadn't touched himself. He wanted the ache. He wanted to remember this—her absolute refusal to surrender, even to pleasure, without claiming it on her own terms.
The silence after was immense. Then, her voice, still hoarse, slithered through the gap.
"You can come in now, Dominic."
He pushed the door open and found her still on her feet, still in her lace, her fingers glistening. She met his eyes in the mirror's reflection, a slow, dangerous smile curving her full lips.
"Did you enjoy the show?" she asked.
He crossed the room in three strides, spun her to face him, and crushed his mouth to hers. He tasted her anger, her victory, and the salt of her own fingers as he sucked them clean.
The war between them was far from over. But tonight, she'd won the battle of wills. And from the way his hands trembled against her ass, Dominic knew it.
Chapter 28
He didn't give her time to savor her victory.
Dominic's hand closed around her wrist before she could step away from the piano. The silk tie from her discarded dress was already in his other hand—she hadn't even seen him pick it up. He wound it around her wrists with swift, practiced efficiency, binding them behind her back. The fabric pulled taut against her skin, not painful, but utterly unyielding.
"You wanted an audience," he growled against her ear, steering her toward the massive mahogany desk in the corner of the studio. "Now you'll perform for me."
"Bastard," she hissed, but there was no venom in it. Only heat.
He bent her over the desk, her bound hands resting against the small of her back, her cheek pressed to the cool wood. The position thrust her ass upward, the thin strip of her thong doing nothing to hide how wet she already was. Dominic made a sound low in his throat—pure, male appreciation.
"This," he murmured, palming one full cheek, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp. "This is what you hide from the world. But not from me. Never from me."
The first spank landed sharp and stinging, the crack echoing off the acoustic panels. Vivian jerked, a strangled moan escaping her lips.
"Count them," Dominic commanded. "Let me hear that voice."
"One," she breathed.
He spanked her again, harder, the heat blooming across her skin. "Two. Fuck—"
His hand soothed over the reddening flesh between strikes. Then she heard a low buzz, and something cold and silicone pressed against her clit through the soaked lace of her thong. The vibrator. He must have retrieved it from a drawer.
"Every note you sang tonight was defiance," he said, working the toy in slow, devastating circles as he delivered another sharp smack to her other cheek. "Every moan you make now is surrender. Three, Vivian."
"Three—oh God—"
He brought her to the edge three times, his rhythm merciless. The vibrator would push her right to the precipice, her inner walls clenching around nothing, her cries mounting—and then he'd withdraw, replacing the buzzing with another blistering spank that sent shockwaves through her system.
"Please," she begged, her voice breaking. "Dominic, please—"
He leaned over her, his cock pressing against her ass through his trousers, his mouth at her ear. "Your curves were made for worship, wife. This ass—" another spank, "—these thighs—" the vibrator returned, pressed hard, "—will always belong to me."
When he finally freed himself and thrust inside her, she was already shattering, her orgasm ripping through her with a scream that was part aria, part primal wail. He followed moments later, buried deep, his groan vibrating against her spine as he spilled into her.
For long minutes, neither moved. Then Dominic untied her wrists, gathered her against his chest, and pressed his lips to her damp temple.
"Still defiant?" he asked hoarsely.
Vivian laughed, raw and wrecked. "Always."
Chapter 29
Two weeks bled into the Italian sun without a single call from Enrico. Vivian had left three voicemails. Four emails. Nothing. The silence wasn't oversight—it was orchestrated. And there was only one conductor in her life who could mute an entire career with a phone call.
She found Dominic in the villa's study, phone pressed to his ear, his back to the door. He was discussing shipments, his voice a low rumble of calm authority. She didn't knock.
"Get off the phone, Dominic. We need to talk. Now."
He turned, dark eyes flickering with irritation, then amusement. He murmured a clipped Italian farewell and set the receiver down. "I was in the middle of—"
"I don't give a damn." She advanced, the silk of her robe clinging to her hips. "Two weeks. Not a single message from Enrico. No auditions, no bookings, not even a 'how are you, Vivian' check-in. What have you done?"
Dominic leaned back in his leather chair, his expression infuriatingly placid. "I've done what's necessary. Your safety is paramount. Il Corvo—"
"Don't hide behind Il Corvo." Her voice could shatter glass when she wanted; now it was a blade. "You've bought out my contract. You've blacklisted me. Admit it."
He stood slowly, the movement a coiled threat. "I made some calls. Your voice is too precious to be wasted on strangers. It belongs to me now, *cantante*. Only for me."
"Belongs to you?" She laughed, bitter and bright. "I'm not a fucking possession. I'm your wife, not your property. You promised me a studio, not a gilded prison."
"And I promised to worship you." He rounded the desk, closing the distance. "Worship requires your presence. All of you. Not just the scraps you deign to offer between rehearsals and tours."
"You arrogant bastard. I'll sing on a street corner if I have to."
He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "And you'd draw a crowd. But I'd have every one of them arrested for loitering. Try me."
The slap cracked through the room before she'd consciously decided. His head barely moved, but his hand shot out, seizing her wrist. In a blur, he spun her, bending her over the mahogany desk. His hips pinned her ass, the rigid length of his cock grinding against her through his trousers.
"You want to fight?" His breath was hot at her ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. "Fight. But you'll lose. Every inch of you craves this surrender, even when you hate me."
She writhed, but her core was already clenching, traitorous. He spun her back to face him, crushing his mouth to hers. She bit his lip, tasting copper, and he groaned into the kiss, pressing harder.
Then she shoved him. He stumbled a half-step—more surprise than force—and she dropped to her knees. Her fingers worked his belt with deft, furious precision. She freed his cock, the Jacob's ladder piercing glinting in the afternoon light. Without preamble, she took him deep, her throat relaxing around the shaft, her tongue swirling over the metal rungs.
"Fuck—" His hands fisted in her hair, his hips bucking. "Vivian—"
She gave him five wet, devastating strokes, hollowing her cheeks, then pulled off with a obscene pop. His cock stood glistening, painfully erect, the piercings slick with her spit. She rose, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her wrist.
"That's a taste of what you're denying yourself. You want the full performance?" She adjusted her robe, the silk slipping back over her breasts. "Then reinstate Enrico. Give me my career back. Until then, you can fuck your own hand, husband."
She walked toward the door, her hips swaying with the deliberate rhythm of a final aria. He stood frozen, cock jutting, eyes blazed with fury and desperate hunger.
"Vivian—"
She paused at the threshold, glancing over her shoulder. "The negotiations are open, Mr. Moretti. Let's see what you're willing to pay for this voice."
The door clicked shut behind her. A heartbeat later, something heavy—a book, perhaps—crashed against the wood.
But through the wall, she swore she heard him laugh. Low. Feral. A predator recognizing worthy prey.