4

Bianca

My phone rings early in the morning, the shrill sound slicing through the heavy fog in my head. I groan softly, my skull still pounding from the drinks I had last night. Even the faint morning light slipping through the curtains feels too bright.

Half-awake, I fumble across the bedside table until my fingers finally brush against my phone. Without even checking the screen, I slide my thumb across it and bring it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Ms. Batisti.”

The moment I hear the voice, my eyes snap open. I sit up instantly, the last traces of sleep vanishing. My boss.

“Good morning, sir,” I reply, trying to sound more awake than I feel.

“I called to inform youdon’t come to the office today. I have a meeting tonight, and I need you to accompany me.” His voice is calm, firm, the same commanding tone he always uses. “Dress fancy.”

My mind struggles to keep up through the haze of my hangover.

“Okay.”

“I’ll send you the location.”

“Okay, good,” I murmur before ending the call.

The room falls silent again.

For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the wall, trying to process the conversation. Then, slowly, a memory from last night creeps back into my mind.

The dim lights. The bar.

And the girl.

The image flashes vividly her on her knees, him sitting there, his head tilted back while she…

I squeeze my eyes shut and cover my face with my hand, heat rushing to my cheeks.

“Oh my God.”

Mortification sinks deep into my stomach.

“Fuck my life,” I groan into my palm.

***

The heavy oak door of the presidential suite clicks shut, the sound echoing in the sudden, profound silence. The last of the guests, a pair of slick German investors with handshakes like vices, are gone. Their lingering scent of expensive cologne and cigars hangs in the air for a moment before dissipating, leaving only the sterile, opulent atmosphere of the hotel room. I stand near the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a glittering, panoramic view of the city lights, a galaxy of man-made stars spread out beneath us. The glass is cool against my fingertips.

Behind me, I hear the soft clink of crystal. Leonardo is at the bar, his back to me. The line of his tailored black suit is perfect, a stark slash against the muted gold and cream of the room’s decor. He moves with a fluid, predatory grace, even when doing something as simple as pouring wine. He’s not just a man; he’s a force of nature contained in human form, and every room he occupies bends to his will.

“Bianca,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the floorboards and up my spine. He doesn’t turn around. “Come.”

It isn’t a request. It never is. I push off from the window and walk across the thick, plush carpet, my low heels sinking silently into the fibers. I stop a few feet from him, my hands clasped in front of me, the very picture of the efficient, unobtrusive personal assistant. Inside, my heart is a frantic bird beating against my ribs. This is it. The moment I have been preparing for...

He turns, two glasses of deep red wine in his hands. The light from the bar’s under-cabinet lighting catches the chiseled planes of his face, the dark, well-groomed scruff along his jaw, the intense, almost black depths of his eyes. He holds one glass out to me. Our fingers brush as I take it. A jolt, sharp and electric, shoots up my arm. I school my features, keeping my expression placid, but my breath catches in my throat.

He smirks, a small, knowing curve of his lips. He felt it too. Of course, he did. He feels everything. “They were pleased,” he says, swirling the wine in his own glass. “The deal is done. You handled the logistics flawlessly, as always.”

“Thank you, Leonardo. I’m glad I could be of service.” My voice is steady, professional. I take a sip of the wine. It’s a Cabernet Sauvignon, rich and complex, with notes of dark cherry and oak. It coats my tongue, the warmth spreading through my chest, a liquid courage.

He takes a slow drink, his gaze never leaving mine. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken things. Power. Desire. Danger. It’s the air he breathes, and I am learning to breathe it too. But to get close to Leonardo Cavallaro, you can’t just be his assistant. You have to become an obsession.

My mind races, replaying the briefings, the psychological profiles. He values loyalty above all else, but he is drawn to fire, to challenge. He respects strength but is intrigued by a glimpse of vulnerability he can possess. A sweet, innocent thing he can corrupt. That’s the role I have to play. The innocent, but with a spark of defiance. The little bee who dares to approach the spider.

I set my glass down on the polished marble countertop of the bar. The sound is decisive, a small punctuation mark in the quiet room. Leonardo watches me, his head tilted slightly, his dark eyes narrowing with curiosity. He is a predator, and I have just made a sudden, unexpected move.

I turn my back to him and face the vast expanse of the window. The city is a beautiful monster, just like him. I reach up to my shoulder, my fingers finding the thin strap of my black dress. The fabric is smooth and cool. I hook my finger under it and, with a deep, shuddering breath that I hope he mistakes for something else, I slide it down my arm. The chiffon whispers against my skin. I do the same with the other side. The top of my dress pools around my waist, leaving my breasts bare to the cool, conditioned air of the suite.

My nipples tighten instantly, pebbling into hard points. I can feel his gaze on me, a physical weight, hot and intense. It feels like a brand. I close my eyes for a second, forcing the tremor from my hands. This is the gamble. The point of no return. I lean back against the cool glass of the window, arching my spine slightly, presenting myself to him. My long, black hair cascades down my back. I open my eyes and look at his reflection in the glass.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the bar, but his entire posture has changed. The relaxed, post-meeting languor is gone, replaced by a coiled, predatory tension. He holds his wine glass loosely in one hand, but his knuckles are white. His eyes are locked on my reflection, burning with a dark, hungry fire. The smirk is gone, replaced by something far more dangerous. Possessiveness.

Slowly, he places his glass on the bar. The movement is deliberate, silent. He walks towards me, his steps muffled by the carpet. He doesn’t circle around me. He comes up behind me, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can smell the scent of his skin, clean and masculine, with a faint trace of the wine and something uniquely him, something dark and wild.

I can see our reflection clearly in the window. Him, tall and imposing, a dark god in a perfect suit. Me, small and pale, exposed against the glittering backdrop of his city. The contrast is stark, erotic.

His hand moves, not to touch my breasts, but to my hair. He threads his fingers through the long, dark strands at the nape of my neck. His grip is firm, possessive, but not painful. He uses his hold to tilt my head back, exposing the long line of my throat. I let out a soft, involuntary gasp. My pulse hammers under my skin, a frantic drumbeat he must surely feel.

He leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. His breath is warm. “What do you want, little bee?” The words are a low growl, gritted out, full of raw, undisguised lust. The nickname, one he’s used a few times in a condescending, professional context, now sounds entirely different. It’s intimate, predatory.

Before I can answer, he moves. His mouth is on mine, but it’s not a kiss. It’s a claiming. His teeth sink into my lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but with enough pressure to make me whimper. It’s a sharp, stinging bite that sends a shockwave of pleasure-pain straight to my core. My body arches off the glass, a silent plea for more.

He releases my lip, his tongue darting out to soothe the small hurt. The contrast is dizzying. The pain, then the gentle caress. My mind is a blur of sensation. I have to play my part.

“You,” I breathe out, the word a ragged puff of air. I turn in his arms, my dress still bunched around my waist. I am naked from the waist up, my small breasts pressed against the crisp fabric of his suit jacket. The rough wool is an incredible friction against my sensitive nipples. I lift my hand, take his larger one, and guide it. I place his palm directly over my left breast. His skin is hot, calloused. My heart hammers against his hand. “Fuck me, Leonardo.”

I lean into him, my face tilted up to his, my lips parted. I am the picture of willing submission, the innocent offering herself to the beast. I see a flicker of something in his dark eyes—surprise, then a deep, triumphant satisfaction. He likes this. He likes me taking the lead, only to hand it right back to him.

His hand on my breast tightens, his thumb brushing over the hard peak of my nipple. I let out a soft moan, my body pressing closer to his. “Is that what you want?” he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous purr. He knows the answer. He just wants to hear me say it again.

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice trembling with a need that is no longer entirely feigned. The danger, the power, the sheer magnetic force of him—it’s all becoming overwhelming, blurring the lines between my mission and my own traitorous desire. “Please, Leonardo.”

That seems to be the only word he needed to hear. His other hand moves to the small of my back, pressing me even tighter against him. I can feel the hard, thick length of his erection through his trousers, pressing against my stomach. A fresh wave of arousal floods me, so intense it makes my knees weak. This is really happening.

He doesn’t waste any more time. His hand slides from my breast, tracing a path down my ribs, over the curve of my hip. He finds the hem of my dress, bunched at my waist, and his fingers dip beneath it. The rough skin of his fingertips against the sensitive skin of my stomach makes me gasp. He explores, his touch a slow, deliberate torture, tracing the line of my panties.

Then, his fingers are there, sliding under the damp lace. I’m soaking wet, and I know he can feel it. There’s no hiding my body’s reaction to him. He lets out a low, guttural sound, a primal grunt of approval as his fingers part my slick folds. One thick finger circles my clit, and my whole body jerks. I cry out, my hands flying up to grip his shoulders for support.

“So responsive,” he murmurs against my hair. He slides one finger inside me, then a second. The stretch is intense, a sweet, burning ache. He curls his fingers, finding a spot inside me that makes me see stars. My head falls back against the window again, a helpless, broken moan escaping my lips. He begins to pump his fingers in and out of me, a slow, merciless rhythm that has me climbing the walls in seconds.

“You’re so right,” he grunts, his voice thick with lust. “This is what you needed.”