Page 13 of Ruthless Redemption
“Layla.” I raise my voice. “Dinner.” I keep my back to the hall, my ears alert for the first sign of her submission, my blood simmering.
Three bowls are filled with pasta, and still, I don’t hear a shift of movement.
“You sure she’s coming?” Bishop rinses the pot and places it in the dishwasher before moving to the stove with his wooden spoon.
“She’s coming.” She’ll join me, even if I have to drag her to the table by that damned towel. I won’t go another day with my actions hanging over my head. I’ll make her understand.
The faintest click sounds from the hall, then the soft pad of bare feet on tile leisurely approaching.
I grin, keeping my back to her arrival. “See?”
Bishop glances at me, his gaze then diverting over my shoulder. “Jesus fucking Christ.” He drops the spoon to the counter, the spaghetti sauce splattering over the marble as his jaw snaps shut.
She’s done something. Instigated some sort of defiance to temper her battered ego.
I’m so fucking tempted to look.
Instead, I keep my attention on Bishop, trying to determine what sort of threat she poses.
I don’t care if she found a makeshift weapon. She can threaten me all she likes. I’d actually enjoy a sparring match.
“A little help here,” he mutters, reclaiming the wooden spoon to shove it into the spaghetti sauce. “I’m over this shit.”
I succumb, hating how it takes such little encouragement to turn and look at her.
To look at absolutelyallof her.
She saunters toward the dining table, entirely naked, her hair loose around her shoulders, her arms comfortably at her sides.
Not one stitch of clothing covers her delectable flesh. She’s bare to me. To Bishop. Toanyonewho might happen to walk along the beach and glance up at the wall of glass she currently walks before.
“Which seat is mine?” She stops before the table, her expression haughty, her tits perky.
At one time, I would’ve enjoyed this performance. When she was mine, I reveled in the hunger she awakened in other men. I fucking thrummed every time someone glanced in appreciation at the enviable prize on my arm.
Now she’s just another thing I’ve lost, and the blatant display acts like a knife between my ribs.
It’s the perfect power play.
“Leave,” I snarl at Bishop.
“If you think for one second that I’m not trying to get my ass out of here as fast as fucking possible, you’re an ignorant piece of shit.” He slaps a spoon full of bolognaise onto his pasta, then snatches a fork. “Enjoy your fucking meal.”
Layla blinks back at me, composed and confident as Bishop storms from the room. She’s so fucking beautiful, her chin high with poise, her lips curved in spite.
It’s a facade. One I fall victim to regardless.
She’s always been hesitant when it comes to exposing her sexuality. Weeks ago, she’d been a skittish kitten when a member of the hotel staff walked in on us in the bath.
This is all an act. A well-planned strategy to push me off-balance.
I finish serving our meals and grab the bowls. I pretend I’m not approaching pure temptation and sidle up beside her, deliberately getting close enough for my suit jacket to brush her arm as I place her meal down in front of her.
“I feel overdressed.” I keep my voice in check, no lust or frustration evident as I pull out her chair. “You should’ve warned me. I could’ve followed the dress code.”
“It’s not too late,” she drawls. “And it’s not like your appearance can disgust me any more than it already does.”
I fake a snicker. “I don’t think now is an appropriate time to remind you of how hard you make me.” I walk back around her, pausing on her other side to lean close to her ear. “And besides, I prefer this dynamic. Having you exposed and vulnerable while I’m fully dressed is a fantasy I never knew I had.”
