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He removed his suit jacket, revealing wide shoulders and a broad chest; took his time sitting; placed a cloth over his lap; loosened his diamond-plated Stefano Ricci tie; unlinked his Jacob & Co. cufflinks; tossed them onto the table like they hadn’t cost him more than a hundred thousand dollars; and carefully rolled up the sleeves of his tailored white button down until they sat midway up his generous forearms.
Meanwhile, I sat there, bathing in silence and feigning patience—all while pretending I wasn’t affected by his impromptu strip show.
He was taking his damn time because he could. Another power play, but from him, I would expect nothing less.
I might have taken his seat, but he had won the battle.
Finally, he spoke.
“The wine is in the wine cart by the door.”
He expected me to get it.
Of course, he did.
I sat still for a moment, my back relaxed against the better chair as I childishly relished in my smaller victory and pretended for a short-lived second that I had another choice.
He was removing the lid off one of the silver-lidded dishes on the table when I got up. He paused what he was doing, giving me his full attention, no doubt reveling in my obedience.
In my submission.
My humiliation.
And for the first time since becoming an undercover agent, I truly had no idea what to do.
I was used to letting the legends react. Allowing my covers to dictate my feelings, words, and actions.
But I wasn’t a legend right now.
I was Ariana De Luca, and while I had no clue what that entailed, I figured I could allow myself to act on instinct. But instinct wanted to fight.
And pride wouldn’t allow me to shut up and take Bastiano’s torment.
I was going to get the wine cart.
Truly, I was.
Until I wasn’t.
Instead, I found myself walking to his side of the table, hovering above him. He pulled his seat back, angled it toward me, and pushed forward until I stood between his thighs.
His thighs were spread lazily apart, the tailor-made qiviut slacks pulled tightly across his powerful thighs. His strong forearms rested on each arm of the chair, and his lips twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer.
He looked both devastatingly handsome and entirely entertained.
I was about to confront him, and he was amused.
I wanted to hit him hard with the things I knew and he didn’t. The FBI had been siphoning the online job applications for the bartending gig, leaving only the unqualified applicants.
Which meant I had this job.
Though he was acting like he had an alternative, the truth was he didn’t. However today went, this job was mine. We both knew this, but I couldn’t tell him that I did.
And at that realization, the fight in me died a painful death, murdered in my throat and buried beside my indignation.
“Well?” He arched a perfect brow, so damned smug and rightfully so.
I pivoted before he could see the pink hue of my cheeks and revel in my embarrassment. This whole situation was a disaster.
