Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
My breath catches. Those Sunday mornings are private. Sacred.
“You watch me in my own kitchen.”
“No.” He sits across from me. I watch the muscle jump beneath the scar on his cheek. I want to trace it with my fingertip. “You cook with the window open. I can hear you from the street.”
Likely story.
I imagine him huddled in the dark, just outside the window, probably under the overhanging maple. Listening to me hum the songs my nonna taught me. Learning the rhythm of my life as if it were his favorite subject.
It should horrify me.
No, it does. It still does.
I shift in my seat, and his eyes track the movement. He knows. Of course he knows. He knows everything.
“That's disturbing,” I manage.
“Is it?” His voice drops, and his fingers brush mine as he sets a bowl of berries on the table. “But you're blushing. And it's not from embarrassment, is it, lass?”
My cheeks are aflame.
“Eat your breakfast, Bianca.”
“Why don't you join me?”
“I'm not hungry for food.” The way he says it, the way he looks at me, makes it very clear what he is hungry for.
I take a bite of pancake, willing myself not to respond. It's perfect, of course—exactly the way Nonna used to make them. And the fact that this brutal, scarred man learned to cook them just for me makes my chest ache.
“Fuck you,” I whisper. Because fuck him. Seriously, fuck him for taking me and making me fall for him when it's nothing but complicated and messy and wrong.
“Say the word.” His eyes are molten. “And I'll take you right here on this table.”
My core clenches. I can picture it too easily. He'd sweep the plates aside, lift me onto the wood, and spread my legs. His big hands gripping my thighs, mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower…
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you can read my mind.”
“Don't need to read your mind, lass. Your body tells me everything I need to know.” He leans back in his chair, his legs spread, at ease. “Pulse is racing. Thighs pressed together. You're looking at my hands like you know exactly where you want me to put them.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.” He stands suddenly, and he's right there, looming over me. One hand is braced on the table beside my plate, the other tilting my chin up. “And I'm imagining it too. Every fucking night. Every goddamn day. The sounds you'd make when you come. How you taste. Whether you'd be shy or take what you want from me.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “The way you'd blush when I whispered dirty words in your ear. The taste of your pussy on my tongue. All of it.”
I can't breathe. I can't think. I can only stare at this man who, with no shame whatsoever, admits he fantasizes about me and wants me.
“Is that what this is all about?”
“You know it isn't,” he says. “But let's stop pretending, shall we?”
“No. You need to take me back. This is wrong.”
“I never said it was right.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “But I think you'd surprise yourself. I think my sweet, innocent girl has a wild side she's never let out. I think you'd let me do terrible things to you and beg for more. And I think it's exactly what you fucking need.”
“You're wrong.”
But my voice is shaking.
“Am I?” He steps back. “Finish your breakfast, Bianca, before I decide to make a liar out of you.”
He walks outside, leaving me trembling and furious and so turned on I can barely see straight.
This is so, so fucking bad.
He comes back with a pile of wood in one arm and the mail in the other, then pushes the plate toward me.
“Eat more. You need more.”
“No, I don't.” My stomach growls. I’m still hungry, but…
“Say one more fucking word about your weight, lass, and you know exactly what's gonna happen.”
When was the last time someone offered me a second fucking serving of carbs?
Marcus never made me breakfast. He took me to expensive brunches, then always pressured me to order the egg-white omelet. Who eats fucking egg-white omelets? They’re a freak of nature, and no amount of salt or cheese can make them even close to palatable.
So I take another bite.
“Can I go outside today?” I ask him.
“After that stunt you pulled yesterday? Absolutely fucking not.”
“I'm going stir-crazy in here.”
“Your ankle's still healing,” he says gently, raising an eyebrow at me.
“My ankle's fine. Just bruised, a little sprained.” I lean forward, holding his gaze. “I'm not asking to leave. Just asking for fresh air or whatever.”
He studies me for a long moment. I can see him weighing risks, calculating possibilities, and worrying, even when the thing he's protecting me from is a basic human need.
“Later. The back porch,” he says. “Where I can see you.”