Chapter 5

POV: Alisha

Cristiano’s hands remained locked around my waist, his broad chest pressed tight against my back.

I could feel the heavy, uneven thud of his heartbeat. His lips brushed the soft skin just behind my ear, sending a slow, sweet warmth straight down to my toes. He wasn't letting go like a man in a rush; he was holding me like I was the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

My packed duffel bag sat on the floor right beside our feet.

"Cristiano..." I whispered, leaning my head back against his solid shoulder. "We have to go. It's almost noon."

"Two minutes," he rasped, his arms tightening possessively over my stomach. "Just give me two minutes with you like this."

The sheer need in his voice made my eyes sting. For three years, I had convinced myself that a man like him, worshiped by stadiums, chased by gorgeous women, could never want someone like me. But the way his fingers dug gently into my hips told me everything I had ever needed to know.

When he finally stepped back, his dark eyes were heavy with a hunger that made my knees weak.

"Change out of your robe, my love," he murmured, his thumb stroking my cheek before letting his hand fall. "We leave the second you're dressed."

I walked toward the closet on trembling legs. Every time I moved, I could feel his gaze following the sway of my wide hips, the heaviness of my chest, and the soft fullness of my body.

I reached for my comfort zone: a baggy gray sweater and loose, faded jeans. Clothes designed to make a plus-size woman blend into the background.

Before I could lift the sweater off the hanger, a large, warm hand covered mine.

Cristiano stepped up behind me, his chest brushing my shoulder. He gently took the sweater from my fingers and tossed it onto the bed behind us. Then his hand reached past mine, pulling out the emerald-green wrap dress I had hidden at the back of the rack, a dress I had bought months ago but was always too self-conscious to wear.

"Wear this one," he said softly, turning me to face him.

My throat went dry as I looked at the deep neckline and the clingy, soft fabric. "Cristiano, you know how people talk. If I walk into your family's estate looking like this, your mother's circle, the press... they'll judge you. They expect you to be with a sample-sized model, not a girl with thick thighs and wide hips."

Cristiano cupped both sides of my face, forcing me to look directly into his dark, blazing eyes. The intensity there stole all the air from my chest.

"Let them talk," he said, his voice raw, deep, and steady. "I don't want a fake, plastic woman to show off to the press. I want you. I want your warmth, your softness, your real beauty. As long as I have breath in my body, no one will ever make you feel small for the way God made you. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on, Alisha. Wear the green dress for me."

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. No man had ever spoken to my heart like that.

I took the dress from his hands.

Cristiano didn't look away as I untied the silk robe and let it pool at my feet. His breath hitched in his throat, his pupils dilating until his eyes were almost black. Watching him watch me didn't make me feel insecure, it made me feel powerful, desired, and deeply loved.

The emerald fabric hugged my waist, draped over the heavy curve of my breasts, and flowed across my hips like a second skin.

Cristiano stepped forward, his knuckles lightly grazing the exposed skin of my collarbone, down to the dip of my waist. A violent shiver ran through me.

"Gorgeous," he breathed against my lips, kissing the corner of my mouth with a desperate tenderness before pulling back with obvious effort. "Let's go before I lose my mind and lock us in this room all day."

He picked up my duffel bag from the floor, slung it over his broad shoulder, and laced his fingers firmly through mine. He didn't let go of my hand for a single second as we rode the elevator down to the lobby.

The warmth of his palm against mine made the looming confrontation feel manageable. With Cristiano holding me, I wasn't just a timid girl stepping into high society, I was the woman he was choosing over everything else.

We stepped through the lobby doors into the damp morning air. The rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt shiny and dark under the gray clouds. His sleek, matte-black sports car waited right under the awning.

Cristiano opened the passenger door, placing a gentle hand on the small of my back as I slid into the leather seat. He tossed my bag into the back, shut the door, and hurried around to the driver's side.

The second he sat beside me, he reached across the console and took my hand again, bringing my knuckles to his lips for a lingering kiss.

"You're safe with me, Alisha," he promised, his eyes soft with affection. "Always."

He hit the ignition, and the powerful engine roared to life with a deep, rumbling growl.

Before he could shift into gear, the violent screech of burning tires shattered the morning quiet.

A massive, black tinted SUV rounded the corner at reckless speed, swerving across the private driveway and slamming to a halt diagonally across the front gates, completely boxing us in.

My heart leaped into my throat. "Cristiano!"

Cristiano’s grip on my hand tightened before he let go to grab the steering wheel. His romantic softness vanished, replaced instantly by cold, lethal fury.

The heavy doors of the SUV swung open.

Two large security guards in dark suits stepped out, followed by a slim woman in an immaculate, high-collared white dress. Her dark hair was pulled tight, and her pale face was twisted with venomous rage.

It was Catalina.

Her eyes locked straight through our front windshield, finding me sitting in the passenger seat beside the man she believed belonged to her. The look on her face was pure, poisonous hatred, the look of a woman ready to burn everything to the ground.

"Hold on to me, Alisha," Cristiano growled, his dark eyes locked on the rearview mirror as he hit the button to open the rear alley service gate.

He slammed the car into reverse and stomped on the gas.

The tires screamed against the wet pavement, smoke rising as he spun the sports car in a sharp, blinding J-turn. As the car shot down the narrow rear alley toward the open road, I looked back through the passenger window.

Catalina stood alone on the curb, her fists clenched white at her sides, glaring after us with eyes that promised war.