“I made these for you,” he says.
“Really, so quickly?” I mock him. “Microwaved leftovers? Or did you buy them at the supermarket.”
“Eat them,” he commands.
I reach toward the nightstand and grab one of the balls. I lift it toward my lips as if intending to take a bite, but at the last moment I toss it over my shoulder and let it arc out the window.
Massimo loses it.
“You spoiled little shit!” Massimo says. He scoops up three of the balls and rams them toward my face.
I press my lips firmly together but he mashes them against my closed mouth anyway. I whimper at the pain, scowling at him the whole time.
“Eat!” Massimo exclaims. “You spoiled mafia princess!”
When he steps back, the remains of the balls drop into my lap. “Vaffanculo,” I tell him. Go fuck yourself. I feel pieces of rice break away from my lips as I talk.
He eyes the broken arancini in my lap. “Your clothes are dirty. Change them.”
“No,” I tell him.
He grabs me by the shoulders and hauls me to my feet. “Change your fucking clothes!”
“No,” I say again.
He seems exceedingly calm for someone whose eyes burn with rage. “If you don’t change them, I’m going to do it for you.” There’s a dangerous tone to his voice. Very dangerous.
“Go ahead,” I tell him nonchalantly. I should be afraid. Terrified. But for some reason all I can feel in this moment is defiance. A part of me even wants him to strip me naked. Yearns for it.
Why the hell would I yearn for that?
And then he’s on me. Massimo forces me to stand then wraps his fingers around my blouse and lifts it upward violently. I meekly raise my arms, letting him slide the blouse completely off me so that I’m standing in front of him in only my bra and jeans.
He lets my blouse drop to the floor and pauses, as if realizing only now what he’s done. His gaze lingers on the pendant around my neck, then drops lower, to my bra. The rage in his eyes flickers, becoming something else… something more wolflike. Hunger. Hunger like I’ve never seen in anyone. His breath comes raggedly.
He’s wearing sweatpants again, so I can see the obvious boner, and when I do, my breath hitches in my throat and my heart pounds with need.
He moves slowly, robotically, as if he’s struggling to control himself, or trying to stop, but can’t. He unbuttons my jeans, moving his fingers down one by one until my pants are completely open. Then he places his hands on my hips and starts sliding my jeans down.
My heart is still hammering in my chest, and my skin feels flushed with desire. Massimo has been looking into my eyes the whole time, and I in his. He can tell I want this just as much as he does. I want to fuck him so badly. I want him to take my virginity. And why not? Better him than The Cleaver. I want to know what it feels like to fuck someone else before I’m trapped for eternity in marriage to a man I hate.
He lowers my pants in jerking motions, and when they reach my knees, I finally come to my senses.
What am I doing?
I remind myself I’m just a toy to him. He’s my kidnapper, and he intends to kill my father. I can’t do this.
“I’ll eat the arancini,” I tell him.
He stops. It’s as if a film lifts from his eyes, and he simply gazes at me in confusion. “What?”
“I’ll eat the arancini,” I repeat.
“Oh,” he says, and steps back, forgetting that he asked me to change clothes.
I slide my pants back up, and feel how wet my panties already are.
God, why did I stop?
