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Sandro hates his girlfriend
The iPad is abruptly snatched from my hand. Sandro lowers his head and gets in my face. “My men talking?”
“Not your men.” I thrust my palms into his chest and sit up. “They think I’m your girlfriend and believe you hate me.”
“That’s not what they think.” He shakes his head. “I should have fired them the first week you arrived.”
“Arrived? More like forced landing.”
“Jesus.” His tone drops to a gritty growl. “You won’t like what I have to tell you.”
I raise my chin. “Go on. I hate you, Riley. Say it to my face.”
His expression softens. “Far from it.”
Tears spring to life.
“Don’t, baby. I’m not worth your tears.”
“You’re hostile one second, then kind the next. You don’t want me, yet you do. You hate me, but you don’t. The one thing I’m certain about is you’re hurting me.”
The cushion beside me sags beneath his weight, and he places an arm around my shoulders. “I’m fucking tired of fighting it.”
“Why won’t you let me go?” I whisper.
“I told you why last night.”
“I trap what I love to keep them safe.” My heart thumps wildly. “You’re fucking other women.”
His snort fills the space between us. Anger spurring me on, I try to wrestle away, but he holds me in place. “I’m no goddamn saint, though I’ve been living like one. The night we went out for dinner, afterward I had a woman on her knees, begging me for it—”
“Stop,” I cry out.
“I didn’t follow through. I’m as celibate as a saint and haven’t touched a woman since you. Since our first night, I don’t want anyone but you.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Liar. You covered me with a goddamn blanket.”
“Alessandro …”
“I fired them. Surprised you didn’t notice.”
I frown. “Everyone?”
“It’s you, my men, and hopefully soon my brother.”
A pang of guilt washes over me. “I need to tell you something.”
He draws in a frustrated breath. “Fine. You want to leave? Let’s strike a deal. One night—tonight. You come to my bedroom and submit to me. And if you ask for a plane ticket back to Marietta, I’ll give it to you.”
“You will?” I gasp.
“Yes.”
Escape is what I’ve hoped for. Thoughts of fleeing are thoroughly embedded in my mind. So why am I struggling getting out one word?
“Deal.”
