Francesca watched him work his cock, her lips parted and eyelids heavy. Her fingers relaxed in his hair, petting rather than pulling, when she replied, “I don’t think I’ll be easy to win, Casanova.”
He groaned, arm moving faster and fist squeezing the ruddy head of his thick cock. His orgasm rocketed down his spine when he panted, “That’s the fun of it.”
NINETEEN
She woke to an empty bed.
Groggy and only half-aware of where she was and how she’d gotten there, Francesca groped the sheets for her phone. She normally kept it plugged in and tucked beneath her pillow so she didn’t accidentally sleep through her alarm, but it was nowhere to be found.
That was her first clue that her life had gone terribly, catastrophically awry. The second was of course the size of the bed.
Francesca flung her arms out and wiggled her fingers but still couldn’t touch the sides. That was certainly unusual. The bed in her studio was a twin shoved up against a wall. She typically woke up with her face pressed into the corner and her legs twisted around a pillow.
And it certainly didn’t smell like oak moss, sandalwood, and musk.
Francesca’s eyes popped open. She sat up with an awful little gurgle of surprise, the soft sheets clutched to her naked chest like she’d just rolled out of some cheesy romcom. The events of the previous night came back to her not in snatches but in a moment of perfect, agonizing clarity.
I’m in Luis’s penthouse.
She let out a slow, calming breath her old therapist would’ve been proud of. Shoulders hunching a little, she looked around like the man himself might jump out of the closet at any moment.
But he wasn’t in the bedroom. There was no sound coming from the bathroom, either — and from her limited experience, men tended to be extraordinarily loud pissers and shower-takers. So he wasn't there.
“Right,” she muttered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Everything’s worse when you’re naked. Get dressed, then go from there.”
Urgency pumped through her, though it was painfully lacking in direction. She didn’t know what she needed to do, only that it had to be done.
I didn’t bring any clothes? Of course not. When would that have happened?
The grand plan had seen her flouncing back to her apartment after the Games finished. It never occurred to her that she should pack a bag. Not like she would’ve had the chance to grab it if she had, anyway.
Cringing away from the possibility of putting her blood stained and brain-splattered dress back on, Francesca tip-toed into the bathroom to pull out one of the fluffy robes she knew he kept hanging on the back of the door.
It was much too large, but that was actually preferable. Even after all that they’d done, she didn’t feel entirely comfortable waltzing out into his home in next to nothing.
After doing the normal bathroom routine — and discovering a cache of new toothbrushes under the sink — she felt marginally more equipped to face the world. Double-knotting the tie around her waist, she padded to the door. She pressed her ear to it and held her breath.
There weren’t any sounds out there, either.
Not sure if that made things more or less nerve-wracking, Francesca slowly turned the knob to pry open the door. The penthouse was dark and quiet. The shades were still down, which meant that it wasn’t dark yet. She couldn’t tell what time it was at all, actually, but she figured it had to be close to dusk if Luis was out and about.
He was still in the penthouse, though. She knew that much. She could feel his energy in the air.
Francesca padded down the hall, her gaze swinging left and right as she searched for him. Finally, when she stepped into the living room, the sounds of cabinets opening reached her.
Wondering what on Earth could compel him into the kitchen, Francesca crept along as quietly as she could until she reached the doorway.
He stood with his broad back to her, dressed in his usual dark button-down and jeans. His hair was slicked back and appeared freshly washed. Bags stamped with the logo from an upscale grocery store lined the counter. He plucked what looked like a bag of flour out of one and delicately deposited it on a shelf far too high up for her to reach.
Baffled, she asked, “What are you doing?”
Luis turned his head to look over his shoulder. His grin was relaxed, like he wasn’t surprised at all to see her standing there in his bathrobe. “Good evening, kitten. You’re up early.”
She leaned over a little to squint at the time on the cooker. “It’s four in the afternoon,” she replied.
“That’s early for us.”
“For vampires, you mean,” she corrected.