Page 33 of Petrichor

His dark hair is brushed away from his forehead tonight, showing off the strong, angular bone structure of his face. The cigarette between his masculine lips and the black stubble covering his cheeks give him a brooding air, while the dim light on the balcony adds to his dark charm.

Marco has such a smooth, deep voice. Is it because of all the cigarettes he smokes? His body looks bigger and more muscular in the shadows. He took off the suit jacket—draped it over the armchair—and rolled the sleeves over his strong forearms peppered with fine black hairs. He looks stylish, but rough around the edges. So damn hot.

“There was a line at the restaurant.” After I’m done ogling, I place the bags on the kitchen counter and start taking out the food containers. Seven in total. Is he waiting for someone? A woman? I swallow hard. The thought distresses me for some reason.

“Tell them it’s for me next time. They’ll take care of the order straightaway.”

“Yes, sir,” I say. “Must be nice having people bending over backward for you.” I pause for a moment as an image of me bent on this counter with Marco’s hands pinning me down pops into my head. “But is it out of fear or respect?”

“Does it matter?”

I feel his cynical eyes on me, and I find him staring with his arms crossed over his wide chest when I lift my head, the smoke coming out of his cigarette dances upward until it dissipates in the night. A fluttery feeling races to my belly when I look at him. I’m scared of what I feel every time he’s around.

Nevertheless, I’m not backing down or shrinking even a millimeter. Instead, I raise a questioning eyebrow at his persistent gaze, and as usual he doesn’t respond.

So, I ask, “Is someone coming?”

“Sit,” he orders, making his way to the kitchen. One by one he turns the containers toward me and opens them. The smells of Italian food propagate inside the room, and I start salivating, so much that I overlook the rude way he invited me to dinner. Plus, the food is to die for. Two kinds of pasta—one spaghetti with tomatoes and the other with mushrooms—chicken thighs with black olives and peppers, fried beef with a white sauce on the side, baked potatoes, stirred vegetables, and octopus salad.

“Why are you doing that?” Marco asks me, sitting on the other side of the counter. He has a container in front of him and is twirling his fork in the spaghetti.

“Smiling? People do that when they’re happy.” I keep beaming at him, amused by his question. “I thought I’d have to grab one of those sad soups with rice from the small shop at the corner of the place I’m staying at. Instead, look at this feast.” I wave excitedly at the containers spread on the counter and barely stop my hand from patting his arm. “Thank you so much for this!”

“Eat.” I don’t let him say it twice and grab my fork.

“Do you usually take an hour and half to have lunch?” he suddenly asks with a severe tone.

Is he still complaining about my lunch break with Art? “I do when I have company,” I reply, after I moan around a bite of chicken. Next time I have to stop at Alonso to shake the chief’s hand. This food is spectacular.

“Company?” He growls, like me sharing lunch with someone equals insulting him.

“A friend,” I calmly answer.

“You said you’d repay me by working, instead you go around having fun.” His voice is calm, but I can feel the flames reaching my bones.

“I came earlier this morning so I took a longer lunch break,” I retort, now getting annoyed by his attitude. He’s ruining my food buzz, while he keeps eating almighty and unbothered. Why do I even like the strong way he holds the fork between those olive fingers? I’m nuts.

“Break?”

“I’m not your fucking slave, Marco.” His jaw ticks with anger, probably because I used his name, but I don’t stop. “What crawled up your ass?”

He suddenly pounces on me and yanks my head back, grabbing hard on the hair on my nape. I feel the sting that his long fingers are creating in my balls. “Only two people are allowed to talk to me like that, and you aren’t one of them.”

“Then add me to the list,” I hiss out, sending him a glare while I pull against his grasp. I don’t know where I always find the courage or the stupidity to push back. But every time someone gets in my face, I have to answer back. It has to do with the fact that I felt so defenseless for the majority of my childhood. The acknowledgment doesn’t stop the impulsive reaction, though.

His eyes darken insistently, focusing down on my lips. “Cosa vuoi da me?” he drawls.

Is that an Italian way to refer to my balls? Because they are actually boiling inside my satin panties right now. His boorish ways seem to easily wake up my libido. I can hardly breathe as a flash of warmth rushes to my limbs, and just when my tongue decides to come out and slick my dry lips, he abruptly lets go.

“You spent half the day making your men’s lingerie, pretty Butterfly.” He pushes his chair back and stands up.“Was that a break as well?”

Fuck, how does he know everything I do? Is this a Big Brother situation? Are there cameras in here? “I started only after I finished your list.” I point at the polished floors and dustless surfaces. I even cleaned the ceiling lamps and swept the balcony. “Are you spying on me?”

“I always keep a close eye on my crew.”

So that’s how he knew where I was at lunch. He tosses the napkins he used to clean his mouth in the empty container before walking away. That sounds like a warning to me. He doesn’t trust me, that’s evident.

“Yourgnocchiare getting cold,” he utters with his rumbly voice as he disappears into the corridor.

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