Page 44 of Plus-Size Bratva Possession
The sheets beside me were cold, and I heard no sounds from the bathroom. He'd been gone a while.
Feeling more level-headed now, less dreamy, I wondered what the hell I was supposed to do next. I'd crossed a line I had sworn I never would. I was supposed to be playing along, gaining his trust so I could escape. Not falling into bed with him and definitely not enjoying it as much as I had.
But I couldn't deny the truth. It was the best sex I'd ever had. And not just because it had been a while. There was just something about Gastone. Something maddening, something confusing, something erratic, and something calming.
“Get it together, Elena,” I muttered to myself, pushing back the covers.
I glanced around for my clothes before remembering they were shreds on his floor.
Great.
I didn’t overthink it. I grabbed his discarded button-down shirt from the previous night and slipped it on. It hung to mid-thigh, and it worked for my purpose.
My face heated when I caught my reflection in his dresser mirror. There was a hickey blooming on my collarbone, and my hair was as messy as it could get. My lips looked kissed to numbness. I looked thoroughly fucked in the best possible way.
Taking a deep breath, I made my way to the door. Whatever happened next, I needed coffee first.
I stepped into the kitchen and paused at the threshold, suddenly nervous by what I saw.
Gastone had his broad back to me and was working over the stove, flipping something in a pan. His muscles, God, they rippled under the sleeveless tank top he had on. My fingers tingled with the memory of tracing that map of tattoos last night.
I stepped in, knowing I couldn’t avoid him, and he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes roved over me in his shirt.
“Morning,” he said, voice hoarser, sexier than usual. “Coffee's ready.”
Not “What the hell did we do?” Not “Let's pretend that never happened.” Just “Coffee's ready,” like we did this every day.
“Thanks,” I managed, walking to the counter to pour myself a cup. “What are you doing?”
“Cooking.”
“You cook?” I asked, with surprise.
He shrugged, turning back to the stove. “I was hungry. Figured you might be too.”
I sipped my coffee, watching him work. This was surreal. Domestic Gastone was not something I'd prepared for.
He began plating the eggs and toast and slid them over to me across the island. “Here you go. Enjoy.”
I took a seat on one of the barstools, my bare legs swinging. “Thanks.”
He fixed his own plate and leaned against the counter opposite me, eating standing up. His eyes never left mine as he took a bite of toast.
“Sleep well?” he asked, the hint of a smile playing at his lips.
I nearly choked on my coffee. “Seriously? That's what you're going with?”
His smile widened. “Would you prefer I ask if you're sore?”
Heat flooded my cheeks. “You're impossible.”
“And you're wearing my shirt,” he countered, taking another bite. His eyes traced over me, lingering where the fabric gaped open at the top. “It looks better on you.”
Despite myself, I smiled. “That's not saying much. Your fashion sense is questionable at best.”
He laughed. “Says the woman whose dress is in pieces on my bedroom floor.”
“Your fault entirely,” I pointed out, taking a bite of eggs. They were perfectly cooked, damn him. “I liked that dress.”
