Page 60 of Ruthless Mr. Ricco
“My mom was too sick.Gary was too worried about my mom.I had to be the strong one.”
“Fucking goddamnit, Brook.”The fury in his tone is too much.I push against his chest, but he tightens his arms around me.“You’re too stubborn.Don’t move.I need to hold you a little longer.”
I sigh and close my eyes.The steady thumping of his heart lulls me into a doze.He wakes me with a gentle kiss to my forehead and a thumb brushing over my cheek.
“Promise me something, little rabbit,” he murmurs.
I blink crusty, swollen eyes and focus on his face.
“Take me with you next year.And the year after that.And every year after that.Forever.”The yearning in his hazel eyes as the last rays of sunlight reflect in the golden flecks steals my breath.“No matter what happens in life or between us, let me be there for you.Let me help you carry this burden.You’ve trusted me this much.You can’t take it back now,” he says.
My raw, exposed soul quivers.I can’t deny him, but if he pulls away, I’ll suffer worse than if I had kept my secret.
I extract an arm from the blanket and cup his stubbled chin.
“You can’t either, Matteo.You’re stuck with me.Forever.”
“Thank fuck,” he growls.
He lowers his head.I lift mine and meet him halfway, eager for the joining of our lips.Fresh tears gather on my lashes, but I pour my gratitude and relief into the kiss, relaying what I can’t say in words.When he pulls away, I hum my dissatisfaction and chase him.He stops me with a fist in my hair.
“You have more than just a shirt to wash before I’ll let this go further,” he rumbles.
My brain refuses to decipher his words.He huffs a laugh, steals the blanket, and tosses it onto the futon before he rises and carries me into the bathroom.
I cringe in embarrassment as he lowers me to my feet in the shower.My bare bones hygiene items—a bar of soap, cheap two-in-one shampoo and conditioner, and disposable razors—can’t compare to the lavish, expensive soaps, creams, and salon-quality products in his bathroom.
After pulling off his shirt and removing his socks and shoes, he shucks off his sweatpants and repeats the process on my clothes.
Despite the protective padding, several bruises form on his thighs and arms.Pride over my pupils’ strength lifts my spirits even as illogical jealousy and anger flow through me.
He adjusts the water temperature and pushes me under the spray.Unfazed by the lackluster water pressure, he washes me from head to toe.I return the favor.
We share my only towel, him refusing to let me use it on him until after he runs the terrycloth over every inch of my skin.
He works the leave in conditioner—my one concession toward vanity—into my hair before brushing and drying it.Watching him in the rusty mirror feels surreal, especially since we both stand completely nude.
He sweeps me off my feet before I can reach for our discarded clothes.
“I need to wash your clothes and hang them to dry,” I say.
He shakes his head.
“Later.Right now you need rest, and I need to hold you in my arms,” he growls.
I stop fighting and eye the futon skeptically as he stalks toward it.
“There’s no way we’ll both fit on that,” I say.
“We will,” he answers.
When he lies me on my side facing the wall and wraps his arms around me from behind, I use his bicep as a pillow and wiggle deeper into the embrace.
“Any more of that and we won’t be resting,” he growls.
Heat curls through me as his cock hardens against my back.I huff and relax for the first time in ages.
Sleep overtakes me.The deep, restorative sleep my body craves sucks me down into darkness without warning.
