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Jesus fucking Christ.
I tore my eyes away before I could start staring again. Rationally, I knew I wouldn’t be able to see her breasts if I kept looking; the shirt wasn’t at all low-cut. But somehow, it seemed more indecent than some of the flirty dresses I’d seen her wear at her father’s parties.
When I’d offered for her to wear my clothes, I’d liked the idea of her swaddled in my shirt and sweatpants. I hadn’t bothered to puzzle out exactly why it appealed to me, other than the fact that clothing her was part of caring for her.
But then she’d stepped out of the bathroom wearing nothing but my t-shirt, and I’d almost choked on my own tongue. The baggy garment completely obscured her curves, but knowing that she was only hidden from me by the thin barrier of cotton made my cock jerk to attention.
Had I really thought that not allowing her underwear was a good idea? It had seemed enticing at first.
Now, I realized that was a big fucking mistake. Was I intentionally trying to tempt and torture myself?
“I like scrambled eggs and bacon,” she assured me, completely oblivious to my sexual frustration. “I just figured you meant you’d pour some cereal or something when you mentioned you were going to make breakfast.”
“Despite all appearances, I’m not a total caveman,” I informed her, keeping my eyes trained on my task. “I’m fully capable of making scrambled eggs.”
“I don’t think you’re a caveman,” she said, sounding far too sweet for my own good. “I’m just surprised that you’re cooking. Does your chef have the day off or something?”
I paused, setting the egg carton on the counter so I could turn to meet her eye. She was still regarding me with open curiosity. Considering my actions yesterday, she should be watching me warily, perhaps even fearfully. Instead, I felt like some sort of exotic animal she was studying, as though I was a strange, interesting new species she’d never seen before.
I shifted, suddenly off-balance. How long had it been since anyone other than Adrián had looked at me without a flash of wariness? My boss and best friend wasn’t afraid of me because it was my job to watch his back. He knew I’d be loyal to him forever, no matter what.
As far as everyone else was concerned, I was a potential threat. Given that I served as Adrián’s personal bodyguard, my entire purpose was to threaten, to intimidate.
Even the women I fucked from time to time were wary of me. They were drawn to me because they liked the little thrill of fear they experienced in my presence. That suited my tastes, so it had never bothered me before.
But now that Sofia was looking at me with fascination rather than trepidation, I realized that I liked her innocent attention. It didn’t even seem to occur to her not to trust me, despite the fact that I’d drugged her and imprisoned her in my home.
She was watching me expectantly, waiting for an answer to her question.
“I don’t have a chef,” I said, knowing that I’d taken a few seconds too long to reply.
Being with Sofia was far more confusing than I ever could have anticipated. For years, I’d lusted after her. I’d wanted her body, her sweetness, her beauty. When I’d imagined having her for myself, I’d never thought about what it might be like to simply talk to her.
She rested her chin on her palm, leaning toward me. “You don’t have a chef? Why not?”
I cocked a brow at her, wondering exactly how cossetted her life had been. “Do you think it’s normal for everyone to have a personal chef at their disposal?”
“Of course not.” She waved her hand, gesturing at my expansive kitchen. “But with a house like this, I figured you would.”
I nodded, accepting her reasoning. A lot of people with my kind of money would hire a chef. Sofia had grown up in an obscenely wealthy home, so it was only natural for her to assume that I might keep a similar lifestyle.
“I like to cook,” I told her as I turned back to my task.
Before I could finish cracking the first egg on the side of the bowl, she continued her enquiry. “Really? What do you like about it? I always feel like cooking is kind of boring. I’d prefer to be doing something else with my time. Then again, I can’t manage much in the kitchen other than using a microwave.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t have a house like this growing up. My mom cooked all our meals, and I wanted to help. So, she taught me.”
“Huh,” Sofia mused. “I’ve never really thought about a man liking to cook. I mean, I guess that’s just my biased view of gender norms based on my personal experience. No one in my family cooks, but I especially can’t imagine my dad in the kitchen. What did your dad think about you helping your mom out?”
