Page 120 of Dirty Mafia King
I’m at the stove and reheating the lasagna when he finally speaks.
“Did I hurt you?”
I face him. He’s studying the whiskey I served in a liquor glass that must be a century old.
“No.”
“Look. This doesn’t change anything.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You insisted we play, so we played. You wanted a kinky thrill, and I gave you one. And…” He locks eyes with me. “…you loved it.”
My heart sinks.Doesn’t change anything?
“I won’t touch you again.”
He called out my name when he climaxed. Not Little Miss Deep-Throat. Not Little Come-Dumpster—Alessia. It was as personal for him as it was for me.
And now that I’ve submitted, he’s done with me. “How long before the plumbing and electrical problems in the casita are fixed?”
His scowl is fierce. “Doesn’t matter. You’re staying put.”
Lord, he’s worse than Sandro.
I stare at the arrogant man in disbelief.
He clenches his drink. “Don Lucchese asked, and I told him the wedding date. His health is declining—who knows how long he has before I’m elected capo di tutti capi. Nothing’s changed. You’re marrying Sandro.” He slams the glass onto the island. “I won’t be tempted by a curious virgin who craves a rough touch.”
His words feel like a slap. I trusted him, and now he’s thrown everything between us in my face?
I hold up my hand. “Pasta.”
He scowls. “What?”
“My safe word is pasta. I’m asking you to stop.” I draw in a breath. “Do I have your permission to get dressed?”
No more reheating his dinner naked. Presenting his marks on my breasts and ass for his viewing pleasure—marks he’s been feasting on like a man proud of his work.
“After we eat.”
The spatula springs from my grasp. I bend to retrieve it, feeling his eyes rake over me once more. I rinse it off, ignoring him, then plate the lasagna before bringing his dish to the island.
I drop it before him with a thud.
“No salad?”
I charge toward the refrigerator and remove prepackaged lettuce, then from a lower cabinet, I retrieve the large salad bowl. The vinegar and olive oil under my arm, I return to the island and mix together a simple salad. All the while avoiding looking at the coldhearted monster.
It’s not until I’m shaking salt and pepper that I glance up.
His blue eyes radiate hunger as he stares at my breasts.
I shove the salad bowl at him, ending his undeserving perusal. He looks at the salad bowl, the plate of lasagna, and then at me. “You’re not eating?”
Lord. His callousness wounds me. But his concern is a dagger to the heart.
“Sure thing, Mr. Beneventi,” I say in my most obedient voice.
His lips draw tight. Doesn’t like me calling him Mr. Beneventi? Or does my mock obedience grate on his nerves?
I serve myself a small wedge and then, back facing him, eat it by the stove while tears coat my eyelashes. This lasagna was a labor of love. And now it tastes like cardboard.
