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“Hungry, Marialena?” he asks in my ear. The heavy warmth of his large hand spans my belly as his fingers splay, and he holds me closer.
“I’m pretty muchalwayshungry,” I say on a sigh. It’s true, though. “It’s the Italian in me.”
“Good. Let’s get you fed.”
I’m waiting for the monster to show his fangs, but so far all I’ve gotten is this somewhat grumpy, definitely violent, but very hot, kinda handsy Italian stallion dressed in a tux.
But Romeo doesn’t exaggerate, and he definitely doesn’t lie. He was—is—scared of Salvatore. And I know my brother would have good reason.
I wait for him to slide me off his lap onto my seat, though riding in a helicopter is nothing like riding in a private jet or airplane. There are no stewardesses, no flight attendants, no galley kitchen where someone may prepare food. The door to the helicopter is still open, however. Salvatore snaps his fingers, and four uniformed members of the waitstaff bring platters of food, the good stuff from the wedding.
He lifts a thick pair of earmuffs and slides them over my ears. Interesting. They’re not unlike the ones I wear for target practice.
I adjust them, and the loudchopof the helicopter blades quiets.
“Testing,” I say, my eyes on him. “Can you hear me?” I can hear my own voice, though distantly.
He nods. “I can still hear you, it’s just muffled.”
They stand beside me with the food. I look at Salvatore questioningly. What now? Someone unfolds a little tray and makes a plate of food.
“Eat,” he commands. He brings his hands to my hips and anchors them there. I look curiously from the trays of food to him, then back again.
“With my fingers?”
A curt nod.
“Is this another test?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond, but I swear there’s a flash of impatience in his eyes. There’s a monster in this closet, and someone’s just cracked the door open. I’m not sure yet what summons the monster, but I do know that disobedience isprobablypretty effective.
My stomach rumbles. “You cooked this?” I ask.
A muscle twitches in his jaw. “Are you stalling?” His grip on my hips tightens.
I shake my head. “No.” But it’s a lie. I’m definitely stalling. I’m not sure what his endgame is here, but I’ve never fed myself with my fingers while sitting on a hot, dangerous guy’s lapon a helicopter,and I’ve just realized that in order for me to eat, I’ll have to lean over him. Press my body closer. And that very well might be exactly what he wants.
My instinct warns me not to stall anymore, not to ask any more questions. My rumbling belly likes this plan.
So I reach for the food. My breasts mash up against his chest as I lean over, my body flush against his. I reach for a bacon-wrapped scallop, thankfully stacked on a little frilled toothpick, and slide it into my mouth. An explosion of sweet yet salty bacon and scallops cooked to perfection explodes in my mouth. “Mmmm,” I mutter. “Oh, God.”
Tingles of sensation skim over my breast. I gasp. His thumb gently traces the hardened bud of my nipple beneath the thin layer of fabric that divides us.
Well, then.
I stay leaned over and take a little toothpick with a fried ravioli, its edge dipped in bright red marinara. I close my eyes and slide it into my mouth. Crispy with a slight tang, filled generously with well-seasoned ricotta. My eyes flutter closed and I make a husky sound of approval somewhere between a moan and a sigh.
He fingers my other breast.
I hold my breath.
Next, a golden twice-baked potato, stuffed to overflowing with bacon and cheese-laced mashed potatoes. This one takes several bites, enough for him to hold both breasts in his hands while he fingers my nipples. I swallow and chew while my body grows warm and pliant against his. If this is how he plans on garnering my submission, I think I’ll make it.
A slice of crusty bread slathered in whipped butter is next. By the time I lick the last crumb, he’s lifted my skirt and worked his way past my lace thong. I’m vaguely aware of the pilot in front of us, his men outside the door, the loud noise of the helicopter blades overhead, but it all somehow fades to my periphery.
“Where’s the alfredo?” I ask on a smile, as I lay my head on his chest and his rough thumb finds the slit between my thighs.
“Thought that might be hard to eat with your fingers,” he whispers, his voice a near growl. “And you need to have a bit of an appetite left for our honeymoon. I don’t want you totally sated, now, do I?”
