How mortifying. He hasn’t given me a second glance. I really need to get it together. And never touch another lemon drop in my life.
“Playing wife now?” he asks sharply. “You don’t need to, Katya.”
I like the way my name sounds in his deep voice. That’s not all I like.Fuck my life.Why does he have to smell so good? Look so good?
“Like I said, I’m returning the favor,” I say, grateful that my voice doesn’t reveal a hint of what I’m feeling. I set the supplies on the bed nearby and pick up an alcohol wipe first, tearing open the packaging. “This might sting.”
He snorts but keeps tapping away on his phone. I take that as his consent.
Moving closer, I inspect the gash on his upper arm. It’s not all that deep—I don’t think it will need stitches, but I’m hardly an expert. I apply the alcohol wipe gently, not wanting to cause him further pain or make it bleed more. It’s a slow ooze now, though I imagine it was bleeding a lot more when it first happened.
This injury was obviously discussed in the phone calls, but Luna and Isla decided not to tell me. Noted, I’m still an outsider here. Not that I want to be anything else.
“Harder,” he tells me.
I look up, startled to find his bright-blue eyes on me. “What?”
“You don’t have to be gentle with me. I’m not some fragile dancer like your boyfriend Jacob. I won’t faint if you press on my wound.”
“Dancers are tough as fuck,” I defend, insulted. “And so is Jacob. Also, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Not anymore,” Lorenzo growls. “If I find out you’re fucking someone, I’ll chop him into pieces and feed him to the fucking fish.”
I pick up the small packet of ointment and rip it open next. “He never was my boyfriend, and this goes both ways, Andriani. If I can’t be with someone else, neither can you.” Annoyed with him and newly furious at the thought of Chiara in his bed, I smear the antibiotic cream on with more force than necessary.
He doesn’t even flinch.
But his attention is on me now, not the phone. His stare bores into me, making my heart kick up and heat rush to my clit.
Terrible timing.
I grab the large bandage, my fingers fumbling as I struggle to tear it open and remove the shiny backing before I smooth it onto his wound.
“There you go,” I say, starting to move away. “Hopefully you don’t bleed to death now.”
He tosses his phone onto the bed and grabs my wrist, lightning-fast, holding me there. “Wait.”
I stare at him, heart beating so rapidly, so loudly. His touch on my wrist is scalding. I want to throw myself at him. To feel his mouth on mine. But that’s stupid. My hormones talking, along with the severe case of Stockholm syndrome I’m clearly not over just yet.
“What do you want? It’s late, and we should both get some rest.”
“What about you?” His eyes blaze into mine, the same way his muscled body radiates heat. “Is rest what you want,cara?”
No. Yes. No.
Definitely no.
I stare at him, not knowing what to say. It doesn’t help that he’s naked and I’m in my bra and panties, that he’s close enough to lick, or that his body looks like it was chiseled by a master sculptor. Not to mention the heat rolling off him, the dominant, barely leashed strength.
Thankfully, I don’t have to answer.
“Cazzo, that’s what I thought,” he growls, pulling me into him.
The breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. My breasts are flattened against his chest, his rock-hard cock bare and pressing into my belly. Our lips are a millisecond apart. I want him so badly, I can taste it. It’s a need, boiling in my blood, spreading through me like poison.
I don’t know which one of us makes the final move, but somehow, our mouths collide. He didn’t kiss me at the ceremonywhen we got married. Not on the lips anyway, just a quick peck on the cheek that left me longing for more, even though I knew I shouldn’t.
Butthis.