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I turn the best way I can with my hand in the cuffs, but it’s limited, and I’m uncomfortable. My arm has begun to ache. He enters the room, and I stiffen. Seeing as he just got off while watching me watch him before he cracked the wall of his room, I don’t want to draw too much attention to myself.
“I will help you get comfortable,” he says, moving to my side of the bed. He’s dressed in black silky pajama pants, the fabric showing off the defined muscles of his thighs and impressive cock. Even when he’s not hard, he’s huge. It’s almost intimidating. Grabbing some pillows, he slides them under my ribcage, the plushness helping me a bit, but that doesn’t stop the ache in my arm.
“It’s hurting my arm. The bite of the metal. Please, I won’t run. But this hurts.”
“I can’t trust you… yet. That has to be earned.”
“I thought you said you wouldn’t hurt me. Broken promises already. Now who needs to earn the trust here?” I challenge him. Standing back, he towers over me, watching me—looking for signs of deception, I’m sure.
As much as I would like to run, and it would be what the average person would do, I know better. Now’s not the time. I have to earn his trust, wait until his guard is down, and then I will make my move. I’m a daughter of the Cosa Nostra. I’m smarter than that.
“Fine, but don’t mistake this for weakness, Arabella. You attempt to run, I just may have to hurt you in a way that your captor really doesn’t want to.” He takes his thumb and runs it lovingly—yes, lovingly—down my cheek, and I have to resist tilting my head into him.
“I won’t. I’m not stupid. But I want sleep. I need it. Please.” I know he already forfeited, but I want to sweeten him toward me.
Without saying anything, he makes quick work of releasing me. When my hand is free, I immediately start rubbing out the aches in my wrist, elbow, and shoulder.
“Allow me.” Reaching into his nightstand, he removes some oil. Watching him intently, I hold my hand out when he tells me to.
DeLuca begins to massage the oil into my wrist first, his hands skilled, as if he does this often. My stomach flips a bit, a twinge of jealousy hitting me. Quickly, I bury that thought. Lust is not love.
Don’t get your head all twisted, Ara, I scold myself.
My eyes flutter shut as he moves his hands slowly up my tricep, kneading the skin and muscles, releasing the ache there. I can’t help but release a sound of appreciation. This earns me a growl, and I resist rolling my eyes.
Is everything I do a turn-on to this man?
He does this for a good amount of time before climbing into bed. I lie on my side, my back facing him. The room goes dark, the click sounding from the lamp he turned off beside his bed. I try to let my mind take a break so I can get some rest, but that’s paused briefly when his thick, strong arms wrap around my waist, and he slides me across the bed until my back is flush against his front.
“Don’t you dare try me. Don’t run from me. Hell is a place I’m familiar with. Don’t make me have to drag you there to teach you a lesson.” With his threat, I’m left gulping and nodding. A meek “Yes” leaves my lips, and there are no more words spoken between us.
I wait for what feels like hours—but really, it must be less than thirty minutes—for his breathing to even out, indicating his slumber, but that never happens. Instead, I fall asleep first, my dreams haunted by the beautiful yet dangerous man wrapped around me.
…
The morning light is what wakes me. I don’t feel arms around me. Slowly, I sit up and look around the room, seeing no one is there. It’s empty, so I sit still and wait to see if I hear noise coming from the bathroom or closet, but nothing moves. I know for sure I’m alone.
I stretch out my sore muscles before climbing out of bed. My feet hit the floor, and I unhurriedly stand, not wanting to make too much noise. I tiptoe to the bathroom, and after I relieve myself, I wash my hands, then step back out into the room and look around again, deciding what I should do next. Seeing the closet, I make the choice to do some snooping.
Anything I find could possibly help me. One never knows.
Flipping on the light, I’m met with an impressive wardrobe of suits and nice dress shoes. An island is centered in the decent-sized closet. The top is glass with a view of his expensive watches and monochromatic ties. The bottom half is drawers, and opening the first one, I see his socks and boxer briefs. I sift through them, thinking maybe there is a weapon or something I could use later. If I familiarize myself with what I have to work with, it could equal a possibility of an easier escape. My father would be so proud if he knew I was thinking like the men who worship him.
