Page 23 of Beauty and the Daddy
In its place is a heat that blooms when I breathe too deeply, a private, shameless smile that creeps onto my cheeks.
I fling back the covers before the smile gets permanent and march to the bathroom.
Cold shower. Exorcism by water. Maybe that'll wash away the crazy.
I crank the handle until it hisses, and the spray slaps my skin icy enough to raise goosebumps.
Spoiler: the demon is stubborn.
I scrub my hair like I'm trying to erase him, but the more I chase him out, the more my mind slides there—his voice in my ear, rough and low; his weight caging me; the sound I made when he?—
My hands start to trace the path Luca's took last night. Over my breasts, down my stomach, between my legs.
I close my eyes and I'm right back there—his mouth hot against my skin, his fingers stretching me open, preparing me for him.
"Fuck," I whisper, leaning against the shower wall.
This is bad. This is so, so bad.
I'm supposed to be figuring out how to escape, not fantasizing about round two with the Beast of New York.
My life is spiraling faster than a TikTok trend, and here I am, getting turned on in the shower like some horny teenager.
I pull away my hand.
Stop it right now. Abort mission!
But fuck, he looked good naked.
I slap my palm flat against the tile and huff a laugh that sounds a little unhinged.
The water clearly isn't holy enough to baptize this out of me. I need to do something else.
By the time I step out, I'm flushed from the cold, and my pulse hasn't taken the hint.
I towel off and pull on the first set of clothes I can find. Get my hair in a high ponytail, and lips all chap-sticked.
Then, I pretend this is the face of a woman who definitely didn't lose her virginity to New York's favorite supervillain.
Yeah, right.
I think I need some coffee.
I venture out of my room, half-expecting to find a guard posted outside.
There's no one there, just more of those creepy little camera eyes blinking at me from the ceiling.
I wander the hallways, trying to remember the path to the kitchen, or dining room, or wherever people eat in a mansion the size of Rhode Island.
Instead, I find myself following the sound of grunts and thuds, like someone beating the shit out of a punching bag.
Or maybe a person. With Luca Moretti, it could go either way.
I push open a set of double doors and step into a sexy ass professional-grade gym.
Weight machines gleam under bright lights. A boxing ring dominates the center of the room.
And there, in all his shirtless glory, is Luca.
