Page 28 of Ruined By Capture

"Something like that." Alessio gestures for me to continue. "Kitchen's straight ahead when you reach the bottom."

I follow Melania as she makes her way down the spiral staircase, the laptop tucked securely under my arm. My eyes drift to the gentle sway of her hips, the curve of her ass in the fitted black pants she changed into after recovering them from her precious bag. Fuck. The sight and my imagination combined is more than I can handle.

"Cazzo," I snarl under my breath.

She stops abruptly, turning to look up at me. "Is something wrong?"

Her eyes catch mine, questioning. A strand of chestnut hair falls across her face and I resist the urge to brush it back.

"Keep moving," I order, my voice rough.

She hesitates for a moment before continuing down the stairs and I curse myself for the momentary lapse in control. But Christ, the woman's body is a weapon. Her waist narrows before flaring into hips made for the cupping of a man's hands. Even in simple black clothes, with no makeup and hair slightly disheveled from hours of work, she's fucking magnificent.

The gentle sashay of her ass with each step down the spiral staircase tests my restraint. I've been with beautiful women before—dangerous women, sumptuous women—but something about Melania Lombardi crawls under my skin and burns. Maybe it's the contrast between her sharp mind and those soft curves, or the defiance in her eyes even when she’s forced to follow orders.

Desire and duty rarely mix well in my world. The fact that she's Antonio Lombardi's daughter should be enough to kill any attraction, but my cock disagrees.

When we reach the bottom of the stairs she pauses again, waiting for direction. The chink of kitchen light catches the curve of her breast beneath her shirt, the outline of her nipple visible against the fabric. I drag my eyes away.

"Straight ahead," I remind her, snapping harshly thanks to the heat building in my blood.

She moves forward and I follow, maintaining distance between us.

I place the laptop on the steel countertop, careful to keep it within my line of sight. The kitchen is far from homely,industrial-grade—enough space to prepare meals for a dozen men.

"So you think you can cook better than me," I say, moving toward the massive refrigerator. It's not a question.

Melania follows, keeping a careful distance. "Based on what you served this morning, a child could cook better than you."

The corner of my mouth twitches. Her sharp tongue should irritate me but I find myself fighting back amusement. She's not wrong.

I pull open the refrigerator door, revealing shelves stocked with fresh produce, meats and dairy. Ettore had arranged a delivery, ensuring I wouldn't need to leave the safehouse.

"Show me what you can do with this," I challenge, stepping aside to give her access while remaining close enough to block any potential escape attempt.

Melania steps forward, her eyes scanning the contents. She's standing close enough that I catch the scent of her—something soft and floral.

She leans in, examining the contents more carefully, her hair falling forward. Her fingers tap thoughtfully against her thigh as she considers the options.

"Well?" I prompt when her silence stretches too long.

Melania straightens and turns to face me. We're standing closer than I realized and she takes a small step back, almost a stumble.

She rights herself and blurts out an offer, "There’s eggs, pancetta, Parmesan. I can make pasta alla carbonara."

Her eyes glide to mine, gauging my reaction. For a moment neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. The electricity in the air has to be leaking from the refrigerator.

Then the alarm goes off, signaling the door is open and both of us startle.

I step back, giving her space. "Carbonara it is. Show me what you've got, princess."

Melania raises an eyebrow at me. "I'm not cooking on my own," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "If you want dinner, you're helping me make it."

"That wasn't the arrangement," I grunt.

“Last I checked I’m your prisoner, not your domestic goddess.”

Christ, she’s a feisty one. And those crossed arms, coddling her full tits are enough to make me lose what sanity I’m holding onto.

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