“What the fuck?” Luca’s voice is so close I realize he’s the hardsomethingnear me.I open my eyes, and his chest is an inch from my face. It has just the right amount of curled hair to run fingers through. I feel the softness in contrast to the hardness of his pecs under my palms. St. Michael is the archangel on the pendant around his neck, protector against evil—ironic really. I bite my lip as I watch the way his nipples tighten in the cool morning air.I still feel a little lightheaded, but I’m not sure about the reason anymore.
“What’s wrong?” His hands tighten on my hips as I detect suspicion in his voice.
“Nothing,” I automatically reply, dropping my arms to my sides.
“Talk,” he orders.
Contrary to Jack Enzino, Luca seems interested in me—for obvious, vile reasons.
“You know that tone doesn’t work on me. I grew up around thugs. That is actually my love language,” I try to tease him so he’ll let it go like he did in the bathroom. But he never does what I expect him to.
“Now, Art.”
Hearing my name from those lips for the first time makes me want to comply. But not yet. “Thought you knew everything about me, munchkin.”
“Stop deflecting.” His flared nostrils tell me he means business.
“My blood sugar drops when I forget to eat,” I confess. “It’s nothing.”
“Forget to eat? You never stop,” he counters with a flat tone.
“I did yesterday,” I remind him. An apple and some vodka wasn’t enough.
He just stares at me for a moment, studying my face. I lower my gaze, my cheeks feel warm, because I’m fucking embarrassed. I don’t care about my hypoglycemia; it’s just that I grew up a certain way, and hiding my weaknesses is one of the reasons why I’m still alive.
He lifts me off my feet so suddenly my hands end up on his bare shoulders. One moment I’m in the air, the next I’m sitting on the sofa. He’s quick to cuff both my hands around the sofa’s armrest. He heads to the kitchen without saying a word and comes back with a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast.
Praise Jesus, thank you.
“You need to free me unless you want to feed me, cutie,” I say, while he sits on the coffee table with the plate on his lap. He putsa mug in my hands and just looks at me as I lift my hands up—as much as I can—and awkwardly bend down while trying to get a sip of coffee from the mug.
It’s too hot and too bitter.
“Did you put some cyanide in it? Is that why it tastes like burnt tires?” I barely finish my sentence before he shoves a spoonful of scrambled eggs into my mouth.
If I weren’t ravenous and weak, I’d spit it in his face. That sharply defined nose and the firm lines of his jaw would have looked ridiculous with pieces of food stuck to it. And that cleft? I’m just noticing it, the dark stubble covers it pretty well, but at this distance, I can see the Superman dimple clearly. His eyes are on the plate, but I remember how rich-green and icy they are, and those scars…is it wrong to think they suit him?
He stabs some bacon with the fork and pushes it impatiently into my mouth. “Eat.”
I part my lips, unable to say no to food.
“Is this you being gentle with me, cookie?” I tease. He’s like a bull in a china shop or maybe his lack of care is because it’s me.
“Not used to having people do things for you?”
My eyes snap to his as soon as his words register. Because it’s true.
“I’ve been living by myself since I was thirteen.” I purse my lips as soon as the words come out. Why did I say that? To make him feel sorry for me? Yeah, that must be it. My crafty brain is ahead of me.
He doesn’t say anything; luckily, he seems indifferent about me. Nothing new there, everybody is. I accept a bite of toast. The food is passable, but I’m eating it like it’s a gourmet course. I thought I’d hate this, thelet’s feed the captive just to exert controlthing, but part of me loves to be taken care of—even in this fucked-up situation. My thoughts are all jumbled as he continues feeding me.
I really despise him, but I perch on the cushion, letting my eyes trail down his bare skin. Man! Is my nose bleeding? Too many dirty images at once. And, that thing in his pants…the fuck is that? What kind of weapon is he carrying around? A bazooka? How can he even function dragging a third leg all day long?
“Always with food around your mouth,” I hear him muttering, before he thrusts a napkin at me. I almost spill the mug of undrinkable coffee all over my lap. I glare at him and then, without averting my eyes, I use my tongue to lick the corner of my lips clean. His eyes follow it for a moment, but I don’t see any real reaction.
“Are you made of rocks?” His dick surely is.
He doesn’t give me a reply.