Page 204 of Breaking Rosalind

“Most people can’t tell the difference between one flower and the other.”

“Our garden used to be full of magnolia trees.”

“But not anymore?”

His smile fades. “I removed them.”

That’s when I remember Magnolia trees featured heavily in the photos of Cesare and his mother. One picture that stands out is of her sitting beneath the sprawling branches, pulling him close to her chest, when he was about five or six.

“Why?” I ask, reaching out to touch his arm.

“She left us without explaining.” He returns to the table and pours the liquid soap into his hands. “The only time we got to see her was in the society pages. She loved those trees, but they became a constant reminder that her love for us was all bullshit.”

“Did you ever speak to her after she left?”

“A few times,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to the magnolia-scented lather building up in his palms. “What she had to say was difficult to hear.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s in the past.”

He runs his soapy hands over my breasts, his fingers tracing over my curves. His touch is practiced, delicate, and more soothing than I care to admit.

As my muscles melt under his ministrations, I exhale a long sigh, and gaze up to find the pain hidden behind his eyes. I regret digging into old wounds, especially when he was careful not to pry into mine.

His hands glide down my waist, tracing the contours of my hips before sliding down my thighs. His touch is unhurried, as though he’s sculpting me out of stone.

I study the intricate design adorning his chest, noting that the skull between his biceps is feminine and surrounded by angel wings. My fingers trace over the tattooed skull wearing a crown on his forearm.

“What do they represent?” I ask.

“Everyone I’ve lost,” he says, his fingers reaching between my thighs. “The skull king is my dad, and then above it is my uncle.”

“And the one on your chest?”

He gives me a wry smile. “My grandma. She was an angel.”

I want to ask more, but his finger circles my clit, and the question dies in my throat, replaced by a gasp. His pale eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes my mind scatter.

When he smirks, I know he touched me on purpose so I would shut the fuck up. My thighs part to give him more access to my pussy, and my hips jerk in time to his movements.

“Do you like that, pet?” he asks.

“Don’t call me that,” I say without heat.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.” His fingers pick up their pace.

Biting back a moan, I jerk my head to the side. My fingers curl into fists at the return of the version of Cesare whose balls I want to crush.

He chuckles, the sound deep and low, sending shivers down my spine. “Nobody touches you but me and nobody ties you up but me.”

“For a split second, I thought I’d unlocked your inner sensitivity. Now you’re back to being insufferable.”

His digits move deeper, obliterating my senses and making my arch back off the platform. “If this is suffering, then I’ll add that nobody gets to torment you but me.”

“Oh fuck,” I say through panting breaths.

“I washed off that bastard’s touch.” He leans down and nips my ear. “Now it’s time to mark you as mine.”