He barks out a laugh. “No wonder you’re so uptight and bitter. You’ve never had an orgasm.”
“I’ve had plenty,” I snap.
Because I have. Just not from anyone I’ve dated. But Andriani doesnotneed to know that.
He just gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me. And now I’m even more irritated that my attempt to insult him backfired so spectacularly that it led to us talking about my sex life. That’s the last thing I need to be discussing with the bloodthirsty bastard who kidnapped me to get back at my brother.
“Going to make a little noise in here,” he tells me, mercifully changing the subject.
“Go right ahead.” I roll my eyes.
As if I have a choice.
But he’s already turned away, going back into the hall and returning with a giant piece of plywood. Apparently, he’s going to bolt that to the window from the inside too. He’s also ignoring me, his face expressionless as he breezes by like we weren’t just talking about my orgasms and he’s not holding a heavy-ass piece of wood.
Dickhead.
“What is this, Crazy Italian’s Home Reno Service?” I snark.
“Something like that.”
He rests the plywood against the wall and goes back for his power tool. Unfortunately, I’m forced to watch his every step. I’m cuffed to the bed, and I can’t move. Closing my eyes feels childish, but that means I have to watch his ridiculously hot profile and his long legs and tight ass walking around in that suit. His shoulders are broad, stretching the black jacket. He looks like he stepped out of a fashion spread rather than a grimy old hunting cabin filled with murdered animal heads.
He goes back to the window without a word and sets down the tool at his feet before he lifts the plywood over the panes. Making it all look effortless, he holds the wood in place with one flattened, tatted hand. Then he reaches for the power tool.
I mentally prepare myself for the loudness, but I can’t help but jolt when he starts attaching the wood to the wall.
“Is there a reason you’re boarding up the window?” I ask, grateful for the reprieve.
“You.”
“How long are you?—”
He starts up the power tool again, drowning out the rest of my question.
Jackass.
He stops, and silence fills the room.
“How long—” I start again, only for him to begin drilling again.
I sigh and suffer through the rest of his little home improvement project.
“Look, Andriani, this could all be over right now if you just let me go,” I point out.
He doesn’t even look in my direction. Just walks out with his power tool, saying nothing. But he leaves the door open, so I assume he’ll be back.
“How are you so sure that it was Misha who blew up your restaurant anyway?” I ask, trying a different tactic.
He doesn’t answer that either.
“Andriani, are you going to leave me here again? I’m starting to lose my mind.”
He reappears then, sauntering over the threshold and shrugging off his suit jacket. “Did you ever have it to begin with?”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan.
But he’s not wrong. I’d have to have completely lost it to be checking out the way his white shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and pecs, or the way it lovingly clings to his biceps as he hangs the jacket off the doorknob before heading in my direction.
