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Unable to deny her or myself, I quickly do as I threatened, flicking her clit with the tip of my tongue, groaning at the sound of her deafening cries. She plants her feet against the mattress and raises her hips until her pussy grinds against my face in an increasingly frantic rhythm. “Yes, yes!” she gasps out, rubbing her pussy and its juices over my skin, making my aching cock drip. “Yes, Luca, yes!”
Her hips jerk upward one last time, and she stiffens before a shriek pierces the air. A flood of fresh juice flows from her all at once, and I catch it on my tongue, greedy for every drop. It belongs to me, after all.
She owes me.
And I’ll take what’s mine.
By the time I’m finished and she’s gone limp, I raise myself and look down at her. Pride floods me when I take in the sight of her splayed-out body and flushed skin. But it’s what happens when her eyes flutter open and meet mine that seizes my heart and catches my breath. The naked understanding in them. The intimacy. We’ve crossed a line together, and I can’t fathom going back. There’s no imagining a world in which I don’t make her do that every day for the rest of my life. There is no living without the taste of her on my tongue.
I intended to teach her a lesson about who is in control around here.
Now, I have to wonder whether she’s been in control of me all along.
15
EMILIA
There’s only so long I can stay in bed.
But it’s safer here, under the blankets, curled up in a ball. He’s awake out there. I hear him in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets. Making breakfast like there’s anything normal about the past week we’ve spent together. He even whistles to himself while he does it.
I wish the sound didn’t stir a smile before I realize what I’m doing.
That’s the true danger now. Yes, there’s always the threat of murder hanging over our heads, though that threat hasn’t been voiced in days. It’s something I can’t afford to forget. More pressing now is the threat of becoming much too close.
The threat of craving him more intensely than ever.
Four days after he tied me up, I could still die from shame at how I begged him. Nothing in the entire world was as important as ending the torment, easing the unbearable tension I was sure would kill me. I should’ve fought and screamed until I passed out from the effort, especially after he pulled that whole Jekyll and Hyde act on me. He was in a good mood when he left for town, and I was even looking forward to him returning with a few treats after days spent eating canned soup and dry tuna.
His good mood returned that very night, even as I went out of my way to avoid eye contact. I wasn’t afraid of him. I was afraid of myself and my weakness for him. I still am. That fear hasn’t subsided. No, it’s only grown with each passing day. Every time our eyes have met. Every shared meal. The random conversations we’ve had, though never about his family or mine, but rather ourselves.
He can’t remember the last time he’s been to the movies but enjoys watching classics in his family’s home theater. He broke his arm when he was nine years old after trying and failing to climb the wall bordering his property. While his parents hail from Sicily, he’d rather dig into a Chinese feast than a plate of lasagna.
He’s a shrewd card player, a big reader, and he damn near jumped out of his skin when he mistook an old sock on the closet floor for a snake. The memory makes me giggle softly before my throat closes up.
Stop. Don’t let yourself do this.
Because there are other factors in play. It isn’t all long discussions and reminiscing. I’ve woken up three times in the middle of the night to hear hushed, tense conversation coming from the living room. Sometimes, I look his way and find him staring at the fire, his brow furrowed, his jaw tight like he’s ready to kill somebody. I can’t let myself forget who he is and what started this.
Giving in to the despair creeping up in my chest is dangerous, tightening it and causing a stinging sensation to prickle behind my eyes. I’ve fought so hard to keep from giving into misery, telling myself it’s useless and will only make things worse.
Right now, though, alone in bed without Luca’s penetrative stare digging into my skull, I can allow myself to feel.
To wish this was over.
To fear it ending.
To know there can’t be a scenario in which I make it out alive once his family tracks me down, which they’re bound to do.
“Wake up if you haven’t already.” When his voice rings out, it’s surprisingly close to the bedroom door. “I’m making breakfast. It’ll be ready in a minute.”
For some reason, the pressure of the ticking clock and the reminder of how our time is running out presses down on me, making me question if this is how he does it. Death by poisoning. He can’t keep me alive forever, no matter how distressingly friendly things have turned for us.
There are easier ways to get rid of me, I suppose. Quicker too. If only I could get a grasp on why he’s going to all the trouble of keeping me alive. It can’t be because he wants me. He has his entire family to worry about and the business, all of it. I can’t possibly be enough to make him forget what he’s been raised to do.
Something that smells like it could be pancakes piques my interest and gets my stomach growling, making the doubt slip away. I’m too hungry to let pride get in the way now. I just wish it didn’t feel so much like I was getting ready to go into battle as I sit up and gingerly swing my legs over the edge of the bed, shivering when my bare feet touch the cold floor.
Rather than stay in my pajamas, I change into an oversized sweater and a pair of leggings, trying like hell as I pull them on not to think too much about how easily I spread my legs for him. I’m so ashamed that I could die.
