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Christ, he looks handsome. Fresh suit, fresh shave. The only sign he’d beaten someone to death a few hours ago are his busted knuckles gripping a kitchen towel.
I swallow the rock in my throat. “If I have to.”
“Mm. Long way to swim on an empty stomach.”
His phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket and turns his attention to the screen. “Get inside, Penelope,” he says, without looking up. “I’m not done with you yet.”
I stare at the side of his face for a few beats, then out to the ocean.
As I reluctantly cross back into the warmth of the sky lounge, Raphael cracks my ass with the towel like a whip.
I’m starting to think I fell asleep on my couch while readingLucid Dreaming for Dummies,or something. Maybe I didn’t really get into Raphael’s car last night, he didn’t really kill Blake, and I’m not really sitting in the crew mess with his cum drying on the inside of my thigh.
Because, surely, Raphael Visconti making me breakfast can’t be real.
My glare cuts through the room and into the kitchen where he stands over the stove, poking eggs with a spatula. His cell is tucked between his ear and shoulder, and he barks ragged Italian into its mouthpiece.
The harsh spotlights highlight all of the man’s contrasts. The sharp suit that’s at odds with his busted knuckles; his callous foreign monologue that conflicts with the sophisticated roll of his wrist as he swirls the contents of his vodka glass. The sight is a source of tension, and I sit here with a straight spine and curled fists, bracing in case it combusts in my face.
He abruptly hangs up and tosses the cell on the counter. It starts buzzing immediately, but he ignores it in favor of dishing up breakfast. As he strolls toward me with a loaded plate in hand, he snatches the phone back up and continues his slew of Italian.
The plate clatters between my fists, and he heads back to the kitchen.
My gaze flicks down at it and my throat tightens. Scrambled eggs, salmon, and sourdough toast—my favorite. Does he make breakfast for every woman he fucks, or just the ones he kills men for?
For a while, I find comfort in autopilot. Fork to eggs, fork to mouth. Chew, swallow, repeat. But when a dark shadow shifts over my toast, I realize it’s impossible to be mechanical when Raphael is standing so close.
My fork stills mid-air and I swallow, then force my eyes to climb the sharp front crease of his trousers and meet his blistering stare. It doesn’t waiver, even when he rests his palms on the table and dips to steal the egg off my fork.
Christ.A rough shiver vibrates through me, still rattling my insides long after Raphael has sauntered back into the kitchen.
I let my fork clatter to the plate, my stomach too full of unease for any more food. Him swiping my breakfast gave me the same gut-wrenching feeling as his kiss between my shoulder blades did, or his hand against my crown, cushioning the blow of the headboard.
Gentle. Thoughtful.Intimate.All my reservations about being here rise to the surface, and suddenly, I need air that doesn’t taste like a…boyfriend.
I scrape my chair back, earning me a sideways glare from the kitchen. I ignore it, take my plate to the sink, and start running the hot water to wash it up.
Raphael comes up behind me and cages me in. Burning up at all the points where his suit touches my skin, I try to slow my breathing and focus on the suds fizzing in the basin.
His Italian so close to my ear makes me feverish. When he pauses to let whoever is on the line speak, he slides his arms through mine and takes the plate from me. I can only grip the edge of the counter and watch his large, damaged hands as they swipe the dish sponge over the plate until it’s sparkling.
So, even on his darkest days, this man is domesticated. This isn’t helping with my unease in the slightest.
The moment he gives me an inch of breathing room, I mutter athank you,then bolt like a racehorse toward the door. His hand catches me just above his watch on my wrist, and he tugs me around.
With a cold glance at my shorts, he switches to English.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Anywhere you aren’t.“Upstairs.”
He frowns and motions for me to wait, then he disappears down the stairs. Minutes later, comes back with a Stanford hoodie on a hanger. He holds it up beside me, looks down at the hemline and gives a curt nod of approval, as if he deems it long enough.
“Put this on first.”
I don’t argue but I wish I did. Because the moment the collar brushes over my nose and assaults me with his warm oak and mint scent, an awful realization fissures my heart.
One-morning-stands hurt.
