This man has servants.Servants. Female servants, no less. “What do you have them do here?”
“Clean, laundry, shop, organize, errands, a bit of personal tending.” He feeds himself a piece of roasted carrot. “Other than that, they’re free to do whatever they want.”
“A bit of ‘personal tending’?” I swat away the food he tries to feed me. “You mean sex stuff? They’re your sex slaves, too?”
“They aren’t ‘slaves,’ Tillie. They chose to extend their servitude.”
It feels like my head’s about to explode. “How old are they? Where do they live? Are they hot?”
“Early thirties. Very comfortably on my dime. What is ‘hot’?”
“Hot as in, do they make your dick hard?”
“Yes.”
That’s it. I launch my unused fork at him.
He dodges it and shakes his head. “Why are you getting so worked up?”
“You can’t touch them anymore,” I tell him.
“I can’t not. They belong to me. I’m responsible for them.”
“I mean you can’tfuckthem.”
“I don’t. I’m a virgin.”
Pressure builds inside my head. There isn’t even a logical explanation for the thermonuclear emotion I’m feeling right now. “I’m serious, Saint!”
At that, he stands and closes the space between us. Clasps my face and tilts it up to meet his intense but unreadable whiskey eyes. With a cruel edge to his voice, he asks, “What deluded notions do you have rolling around in this pretty head of yours,regalità? Who do you think I am to you? What have you convinced yourself I owe you?”
“You’re mine.” The words are out of my mouth before my brain can catch up, and I suppress the urge to wince.
Flat and unflappable, he asks, “Who decided that?”
“I did.”
Dark amusement glints in his eyes. “Don’t you get it by now that I only show people what I want them to see? Do you think it’s that easy to own me,piccola regina?”
“Maybe not. But I’m up for the challenge.” I straighten up from the stool, hoping to remind him that I’m no small thing, no frail bird in his grasp. “And you know me well, Santo Luciani. You know I always get what I want.”
The air between us thickens as we stare each other down. With threat, challenge, lust, caution…
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I don’t hesitate. I go in for the kill. But he sees it coming and smoothly dodges. Drops his hands from my face and steps back.
His voice is smokily thick when he says, “Let’s go.”
No. I plop back down on the stool. “I’m not done eating.”
“Finish up and let’s go.”
“You were feeding me.” I hang my wrists. “Tired hands, remember?”
He rubs his jaw, watching me with a darkly grave expression. A look as threatening as a loaded gun aimed at the head.
But I don’t let it intimidate me.
As if coming to some unknown conclusion, he removes his glasses and sits down again. Triumph spreads through me like healing waves when he picks up the fork and continues to feed me.
