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I sat down, my fingers clenched in fists at my sides as I watched him languorously cut into the porchetta, deliberately taking his sweet time.
I was sitting in his ten-thousand-dollar chair, dressed to kill in a fitted cocktail dress the color of coal, my hair pulled up in a French chignon that had taken an hour to perfect, my makeup flawless and natural.
I was educated and witty, well-read and gifted in almost everything I had ever tried. I looked like I belonged on a goddamned runway in Milan, and in a war of words, I knew I could hold my own.
Yet, in front of him, my entire existence felt inadequate.
Futile.
My heart struggled to escape my chest as I waited for him to cut the tiniest of pieces off the porchetta.
He added a bit of a roasted rosemary potato to the fork and dipped it in the peach glaze, his movements measured and painstakingly slow.
And just when I thought he was finally going to feed himself, he lifted the fork in my direction. My eyes widened as he waited for me to accept the offered bite, a convincing look of indifference pasted on his cold face.
Just do it and get it over with, I begged my pride.
I leaned forward, excruciatingly aware of the way the table dug into my cleavage at the movement. His eyes dropped to my breasts for a short-lived second, but it was enough to quicken my breath.
I forced myself to ignore my audience—him more so than his employees—and opened my mouth for the bite.
He made me wait there, my mouth open, his fork suspended in the air, before he allowed the cold metal to touch the tip of my tongue.
He broke our tense eye contact to watch my mouth wrap around the fork. When his eyes dilated and his nostrils flared, I leaned back, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.
Everything about the situation was erotic.
My nipples pebbled painfully against the bare fabric of my dress. My pulse felt tangible. A light sheen of sweat coated my neck.
And I knew that, if I were to touch myself, I’d find myself dripping wet.
For him.
The man who came from a family of monsters.
The man who was, quite probably, a monster himself.
And only after I let out an involuntary moan—whether at the taste of the food or the indecency of being fed by him, I didn’t know—did he speak, “This is the quality of food we serve at L’Oscurità.” His lips formed a derisive sneer as he met my eyes with unrelenting judgment. “No bartender worth hiring would ever pair a porchetta with a glass of Crémant at a three Michelin star restaurant. Not even on the bar side.”
He tossed his napkin onto the table and stood.
The tailored fit of his pants showed off a massive hard-on he didn’t bother hiding.
I couldn’t even process the fact that I had given him an erection before he left the room, leaving behind his suit jacket, one-hundred-and-fourteen-thousand-dollar cufflinks, and what little dignity I had left.
Chapter
Seven
War is a duty… The only real choice is whether you accept it, and what you fight for.
RICK RIORDAN
ARIANA DE LUCA
It took a solid minute for me to pick up my jaw, but as soon as I recovered, I tore out of the break room like my life depended on it.
I passed Dana and another waitress on the way out. Both of them were frozen in place, and I totally understood where they were coming from.
