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Even though my dick is aching and my shoulder’s pounding, there’s a satisfied smirk on my lips as I finally close my eyes.
Chapter 13
Deirdre
I wake up slowly, not wanting to become fully conscious. The blankets are so heavy and warm, cocooning me, and I snuggle down. The mattress is different. Newer and better. The pillow is different, too. So plush it’s like I’m in a cloud rather than a bed.
It feels amazing.
And it feels wrong.
This isn’t my bed.
My eyes fly open, and I sit up like I’ve been electrocuted. I hold the blankets around myself, looking at the room, remembering everything that happened last night. I swallow, my throat tight and dry, as I stare ahead through the open doorway that leads into Elio’s room.
I don’t see him, but it almost doesn’t matter. The sight of him standing there, a shadowy figure illuminated only by the glow of light spilling from my room, is burned into my brain from last night.
My whole body flushes hot with shame. I stared at him. Like, really stared at him. He undressed, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of him, off of the thick bulge beneath the smooth black fabric of his underwear. And then, when he took those off…
I groan, burying my head in my hands. What the fuck is wrong with me? When his cock was out, huge and long, my heart was going absolutely ballistic. Part of it was fear, but a larger part, a part I want to run away from and deny, was wondering how hot and smooth his skin there would feel under my fingertips.
It’s a completely different reaction from when I was with Brian. When I was in Brian’s bedroom that night, I’d been completely repulsed by him and the situation. It was like my entire body shut down with the fear. Everything turning to ice.
Elio is a thousand times more dangerous than a guy like Brian. There’s no denying the huge, masculine threat of him – the power in that muscled, scarred body. So my response to him doesn’t make sense. I shouldn’t have been staring at his half-hard dick, wondering what it would look like fully erect. I should have been terrified out of my wits. But I wasn’t frozen, my blood cold in my veins. I felt like I was on fire.
I’m not as scared of Elio as I should be. And that is fucking dangerous.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes and rub. My eyes feel dry and grainy, and I’m dying for something to drink.
The sound of a door opening, then a clattering, rolling sound, makes my head jerk up. I relax slightly when I see that it’s not Elio, but rather a short, round woman with greying hair tied in a bun at the back of her head. She’s pushing a cart on wheels, and I gawk at the feast laid out on the tray on top.
“Breakfast, breakfast!” she says in a thick Italian accent. “Food. Caffè.”
“Hello,” I say tentatively as the woman brings the cart to a stop beside the bed. There are pastries, warm slices of buttered toast, a cup of yogurt drizzled with honey, and what looks like espresso in a small cup. I could definitely go for some caffeine right now, but I’ve never been much of a coffee drinker.
“Do you have tea, by any chance? Irish breakfast?”
The woman looks at me like I just spat on her mother’s grave.
Coffee it is. It was probably stupid for me to ask for something else, anyway. I’m not a guest here. I’m a prisoner.
I pick up the small cup and take a tentative sip, wincing at the bitterly strong flavour that coats my tongue. The woman is watching me and mutters something in Italian that sounds kind of judgmental. She sighs and plants her hands on her hips then says, “Tomorrow, caffè macchiato? Some milk?”
I nod and smile weakly. “Maybe with some sugar?”
She snorts and tosses her hands up in a resigned sort of gesture.
“Thank you,” I say, not wanting to offend her further when clearly my taste in drinks already has. I can’t afford to push away any allies, even if they work for Elio. “I’m Deirdre.”
“Sì, sì, I know,” she says as she unloads the food onto the bedside table.
“What’s your name?” I ask her, though she doesn’t really seem up for much conversation. I take another swig of the espresso as an expression of goodwill, hoping it will encourage her.
“Rosa. I cook for Mr. Titone. Clean. Keep the house nice.” At those last words, she glares at the doorway that leads into the bathroom, noticing the chunks of plaster and flakes of paint left behind by Elio’s hammer rampage. She opens the cupboard-like doors on her cart and takes out a small handheld vacuum, marching over to the mess like a soldier. For someone who’s got to be at least sixty, she attacks the mess with gusto, grumbling in Italian the entire time.
Now that she’s preoccupied and won’t notice, I put down the espresso. Thankfully, there’s also a glass of ice water, and I chug it. Rosa finishes vacuuming, then returns to her cart for a rag and a spray bottle, heading for the bathroom.
I realize at that moment I desperately have to pee. For some reason I don’t think Rosa would take it well if I went in there and interrupted her cleaning process.
