Page 6 of De Luca: The Saint

“Sir, can I go home?”

He brushes his knuckles down the side of my face, causing shivers to run through my entire body, “It’s just dinner, Kitty Kat. I promise, I won’t hurt you.”

I close my eyes and swallow hard. I know he’s not going to hurt me physically, but a man like him is bad for me, dangerous. I have a feeling the streets could be paved with all the hearts he has broken along the way. I refuse to be one of them. After tonight, I’ll stay far away from Damian De Luca.

“Okay, just dinner,” I agree.

The vehicle rolls to a stop, he opens the door and gets out before holding his hand out to me. Reluctantly, I take it and we walk to the elevator. I move to the far wall, creating as much distance as possible in this box.

He walks over to me, places a hand on the wall on either side of me, and growls, “Kitty Kat, relax. Fucking breathe.”

I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. I exhale, slowly as I take in his dark gaze. The one that holds promises I’m not sure he can keep. His eyes burn into mine, causing heat to flood my core, a feeling I’m not used to. Sure, I get turned on like any other woman but not like this. It’s thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

He dips his head down to the crook of my neck, “Good girl. Such a good girl.”

A whimper escapes from me, causing him to chuckle. This man is overwhelming. He’s too much.

The doors slide open, and he grabs my hand, “Let’s go, Kat. Dinner should be ready.”

We step out into his Penthouse, and it’s the most luxurious house I’ve ever been in. The first room I see is like a living room on steroids. It’s massive, with three light colored sectional sofas and several armchairs, decorated in dark colors, on the walls several expensive looking pieces of artwork brighten the room. I stop moving and stare in shock. The entire one side of the room is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. A beautiful vase of orchids sits on the dark coffee table in the middle of the room. Something catches my eye and I tilt my head back, gazing up to the ceiling. A stunning modern circular crystal chandelier hangs above me. This home screams opulence. Glancing at my feet I swallow hard when I realize I’m standing on Brazilian rosewood flooring. It’s a rare and exotic hardwood that, according to the show on HGTV that I watched with my mom, sells for up to five hundred dollars per square foot. My mom is a dreamer, so she loves watching tv shows about overpriced shit she’ll never own. I wish I had never watched that episode of Luxury Homes because now it just highlights what I already knew.

“Come on, Kat. I’ll give you a tour later.”

I follow him, but he’s misunderstanding me. It’s not that I want a tour. I want to get the hell out of here. The amount of money in this place makes me question everything. The clothes I’m wearing probably look like poverty to him—my slightly worn shoes, my jewelry from Claire’s because that’s all I’ve ever been able to afford. This man is dripping with money, and I’ve got less than five dollars to my name. The worst part about it, he knows. I told him. What’s wrong with me?

“Kat?”

I have unshed tears in my eyes that I’m hoping he doesn’t notice, but he does because he seems to notice everything.

Luckily, he doesn’t say anything. He just waves toward the dining room table that costs more than everything in my apartment combined.

I walk over to the beautiful cherrywood table for twelve, and he pulls the chair out for me. I take a seat and try to bury all my inadequate feelings.

A man in a suit comes over, “Dinner is served. Let me know if you need anything further, Boss.”

Damian nods, “Thank you, Oliver. You may retire for the evening.”

He glances at me quickly before giving Damian a nod and then walks out of view.

Damian stares at me, making me nervous all over again, “I didn’t know what you liked, so I told him to keep it simple.”

I laugh as I scan the ridiculous amount of food for two people, “I’m not sure this is simple. It looks and smells delicious, thank you.”

Picking my fork and knife up, I cut into the rather large Porterhouse steak and take a bite. Also on my plate are fingerling potatoes, carrots, a small salad, a roll, the plate is overflowing. This is definitely more food than I can eat.

After he takes several bites, he says, “Tell me about yourself, Kat.”

I look at him, startled, “Well, I don’t know what you want to know.”

His gaze intensifies, and his dark eyes narrow, “Everything, Kitty Kat. I want to know everything.”

Is it hot in here? The temperature feels like it’s shot up to one hundred degrees, and I struggle to breathe, “Nobody calls me Kitty Kat.”

“I do.” He pops a potato into his mouth, chews, and swallows.

I can’t help but watch his throat move as I get lost in the skull tattoo on his neck.

He stabs a piece of meat with his fork, “So, Kat, everything.”

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