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With a chuckle, he drapes his jacket over his arm. “We’ll eat in the dining room.”
And with that, he raps his ring against the counter and saunters off through the living space, disappearing under an arched doorway on the other side of the room.
My knees threaten to give way the second he disappears. It’s like they were holding out, and like the rest of me, too stubborn to collapse in his presence. I clutch the counter and take a few deep breaths, steadying my hands and my heart.
Woman up, Romy.That’s another Mak saying. I couldn’t count how many times he’d barked that in my face in the courtyard of the pustosh’. It became a ritual before any lunchtime fight. As I glanced through the dusty air of the playground to look at my opponent, he’d clamp his huge hands on the bones of my shoulders and force me to look at him instead. Woman up, he’d hiss, eyes as bright as the scar on his forehead. Not man up. I wasn’t a boy, let alone a man. But I was a girl, trying to be given the same opportunity as a man. A girl who wasn’t forced into prostitution by the ring-clad hand of a Vulture.
The lump swelling in my throat brings me back to reality. To the kitchen, with the pot hissing away behind me. I come back to it with a newfound determination and strength, Mak’s encouragement dancing at the forefront of my mind.
Time to cook.Hell, in my world, cooking constituted pouring boiling water into an instant ramen cup and slurping the half-cooked, powdery noodles over the kitchen sink. But logic outweighs my culinary skills, so I fry up the vegetables, dump the entire bag of pasta into the water, and then, with a cursory glance in the direction of the dining room, I pour the jar sauce over everything, hoping it’ll at least soften the blow of my horrible cooking.
I wrap the empty jar in a wad of tissue and bury it at the bottom of the trashcan.
With trembling hands, I carry two paper plates to the dining room. As I grow closer, I can hear the soft sound of music. Hauntingly slow jazz, each note oozing from the room like caramel dripping off a spoon.
Like all of the communal spaces in the apartment, the dining area is open plan, separated from the living space by a change of ceiling. It curves into a sweeping dome, like the nave of the church, with the sleek white dining table running the length of it. On the back wall, symmetrical arch windows give glimpses of the New York skyline.
It’s raining again.
My husband is sitting in the seat most befitting to him at the head of the table. His back is facing me, but he tilts his head when he hears me coming. I drop the plate in front of him, a little too heavy-handedly, causing the blood-red sauce to splish-splash onto the tablecloth.
“Oops,” I mutter breathlessly, then make my way to the opposite end of the table.
I manage two steps before his hand shoots out and forms a tight grip on my wrist. “Where are you going?”
Sauce from my own plate sloshes onto the marble floor. I try to ignore the sensation of his ice-cold skin against mine. It makes me feel something I don’t want to name. “To sit over there,” I hiss.
The way he tugs on my wrist is gentle, but it serves as a warning. “You’ll sit here,” he purrs, tearing his eyes from mine just long enough to nod at the seat next to him. He’s laid my place and his like we’re in a fine-dining restaurant, only, the wineglasses and plates are plastic.
The butter-soft leather against the silk of my dress makes me feel frictionless. I stare at the soup-like pasta in front of me in an attempt to avoid his gaze when I notice that there’s no silverware. I rise, but his hand shoots out again, this time landing high on my thigh. His thumb disappears into the side split of my dress. “Going somewhere, sweetheart?”
There’s a hardness to his tone that contrasts the softness of his touch. Both make my pussy ache. “We need cutlery,” I rasp, each word strangled and pathetic. “Unless you prefer to eat with your hands.”
His push is subtle, but I melt back into the chair like putty.
He unrolls the napkin next to him, revealing a knife, spoon, and fork. Plunging the fork into the spaghetti, he twirls a perfect little nest and brings it up to my lips. “You first,” he says huskily, a challenge swirling around his pupils. “I need to make sure you haven’t poisoned me.”
A chunk of carrot drops onto the tablecloth.
Anger flares in my chest. “I can feed myself, thanks,” I snap, pulling away from his outstretched fork. “And poisoning you…I wish I’d thought of that, actually.”
His hand is still on my thigh. My skin underneath it is hot enough to ignite a forest fire.
“I didn’t ask if you can feed yourself.” His eyes scorch my lips. “Now open that pretty little mouth of yours.”
My mouth parts before my brain can spit venom through it. Before I correct my mistake, he slides the fork into my mouth. “Good girl,” he murmurs, more to himself than me.
Those two words should make me want to snatch the fork from his hand and jab it in his eyes. But they don’t. They do something disgusting to me instead. They bend my defiance, stroke my ego, and fill up my lower stomach with warmth.
I’m stupefied by my own actions, as well as his. That’s how he gets away with slipping another forkful of pasta between my lips. This time, he times out a little puff of air as I swallow, eyes never leaving my mouth. Am I imagining it, or has his hand on my thigh inched north?
I feel delirious, floating in a dark gray bubble, fueled by wine and surrounded by the trickle of jazz music. My fingers claw around the tablecloth. The fabric bunches, dragging the plastic plate and wineglasses toward me. Another mouthful. Another bolt of electricity zapping my clit. I rock on it, and I don’t know whether it’s to try to squash the feeling or make it grow.
“Romy?”
“Huh?”
Donnacha sets down the fork and leans his forearms on the table to narrow the gap between us. He picks up a napkin and dabs at the corner of my mouth.
