She had the same sexual reaction to his commanding voice that she did his velvet voice. That was how far gone she was. How could she have confessed that to Stefano Ferraro? Even if she had been alone with him, she knew she never would have told him all of her reasons for wanting out of her contract. There were things about her character she had learned early on that had shocked and mystified her. That truly horrified and humiliated her.
In Spain, she’d gone into counseling in order to try to understand why she was the way she was. On some level, she knew her family had programmed her to feel submissive. They also made her feel desperate to be loved. To be wanted. But that had little to do with her reactions to a voice. She had heard the voice before she ever saw the man.
She’d worked in a very high-end restaurant during the evenings and a café during the day. Elie frequented both places with his models and actresses. He often came into the restaurant with a group of his friends, and occupied one of the rooms reserved for their best customers. She didn’t serve in those rooms as a rule; only those with seniority were allowed as the money earned was more than generous.
Obediently she leaned back against the tub wall and allowed her head to fall against the pillow. Once he’d turned off the lights, she felt safe enough to ask questions.
“Is there a guest room I could sleep in tonight?” Deliberately, she closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at his face, just in case she made him angry.
Elie lit candles. She knew because she heard the scratch of the match and then smelled the apple-cinnamon scent.
“We have two guest bedrooms, neither of which you’ll be sleeping in, Brielle. I expect my wife to sleep with me. I think that was made very clear in the questionnaire sent to you with all my replies. I have a strong sex drive. I intend to give you time to get used to us, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you close to me. I sleep nude and expect you to as well.”
She didn’t protest because he had made that abundantly clear. “You said you liked sexy night things.”
“Not to sleep in,” he corrected. “When we play. I’ll let you know when I want you to wear something by laying it on the bed. I have no problem telling you what I want from you.”
A little shiver of awareness crept down her spine. He was close to her again, sitting on the side of the tub, his eyes on her. She could feel the way he stared at her. Just knowing his gaze was on her made her body come to life all over again, when it hadn’t had time to settle. His hand spanned her throat, making her jump, and then his finger traced a line from her throat over the swell of her right breast to her nipple hiding beneath the water.
Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes flew open. He wasn’t looking at her face to judge her reaction, but at her body. In spite of the heat, goose bumps rose on her skin. The burning between her legs increased. Her nipple tightened when he tugged and then flicked at the sensitive bud. His actions seemed casual, almost idle, yet he didn’t look away from her breast.
“I’m not a man who forgives easily, Brielle.”
Her heart jerked hard in her chest. She wanted to draw her legs up to her chest and make herself very small. He’d spent years trying to apologize to her and now he was fully aware she’d gone to Jean-Claude’s to tell him she wasn’t going to marry Elie. In fact, she was going to do her best to persuade the Archambaults to allow Fayette to take her place. Elie had no idea how just the thought of Fayette with Elie destroyed her, but she still had gone there with that intention. She couldn’t blame Elie for holding a grudge against her. He’d admitted to Stefano he was angry with her.
Brielle pressed her lips together, aware, as the silence stretched between them, that Elie expected some sort of reaction from her. “From the things you said to Stefano about your relationship with the Archambaults, I did get that.”
“I have no wish to ever work as an Archambault rider again. I don’t want our children to ride the shadows as Archambaults. I want them to grow up as Ferraros, in that family, knowing love and feeling it. I expect the two of us to raise them together and teach them what they need to know ourselves. I appreciate that you trained as a rider and that you’re as good as you are because you can pass that to our children, but if you have hopes that they will ride as Archambaults, they will not.”
His voice was lower than ever. At no time did he look up at her. Instead, he traced the underside of her breast and then moved to her left one, seemingly fascinated by the rounded curves as they floated just beneath the surface.