I tilt my head up, my body acting of its own accord as I imagine him kissing me.
Marlen clears his throat quietly and steps back, grabbing another pillow and holding it in front of him.
What just happened?
Oh my word, what the hell just happened? Was I going to let him kiss me? Did he want to? Did I imagine that?
“I’m going to take a shower as well and then come check on you after. Drink the tea slowly,” he says gruffly before hurrying out of the room.
I stare after him, stunned into silence.
But as I watch the door he left through and listen to the whispers tingling through my body, an idea forms.
What if I seduce Marlen?
It’s easy to get anything you want from a man if you can seduce him. Isn’t it?
Maybe that’s my key to escaping.
Chapter 7 - Marlen
It’s been one of those days when you manage to get everything done and tick off all of those annoying small items that have been on your to-do list for months. I spent the morning running errands around town, then the afternoon in meetings, and later in the day, I sat in my office and finally replied to and sent off some very tedious emails.
I’m done, and I feel good about the day.
And as I close my laptop and glance out at the sunset, I smile. It’s strange how we put off things that are pretty quick to finish, but when they’re unfinished, they sit in the back of our minds, pestering our thoughts and taking up our time.
Shaking my head at myself, laughing at my own procrastination, I pick up my phone and car keys and do one last quick look around the office to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, then head out, ready to get home and have dinner with Stefania. All through the day, I’ve been thinking about her. Even when I’m busy, she’s in my thoughts. A constant hum like a pleasant song in the background.
I didn’t see her this morning because I left so early, and I think she slept late because of her tummy ache last night. I tried my best to take care of her when we got home after dinner… but when I almost kissed her… that was not part of the plan. It’s not what I intended, but the feeling was so damn overwhelming. She looks vulnerable and beautiful. Those lips, those eyes, her innocent expression. It all pulled me in like a moth to a flame.
I’ve got to be more careful. I told myself in the beginning, before the whole plan rolled into action… this isn’t some love story. There is no happily-ever-after bullshit going on here. She is my prisoner, and I am her captor, and her entire purposerevolves around me having the revenge that I’ve been craving for the longest time.
In my car, I turn the music up and slide the convertible top down. It’s a beautiful evening, and I want to feel the warm air on my skin. The city is alive with color, and people are walking on the sidewalks, some heading home, some heading out. Couples. Singles. Groups, laughing and talking loudly. I listen to them when I stop at traffic lights or sit in brief sections of congestion near main turnoffs.
The drive home is pleasant and calming.
Parking outside the front steps of my mansion, I close the convertible roof and head inside. Through the front windows, there is a warm, welcoming glow. The house feels like a home with the lights on, spilling out into the night.
Pushing the front door open, I’m greeted by an aroma of rich, creamy garlic and cheese sauce.
I follow the smell into the kitchen while my stomach rumbles with eager anticipation of what the chef has made for dinner.
But to my surprise, I don’t find the chef standing over the stove; rather, Stefania.
“You’re cooking?” I blurt out as I walk in.
She spins in fright, the spoon in her hand, dripping creamy sauce onto the floor. She giggles and shakes her head. “You can’t sneak up on me like that!” she says with a wide smile that presses dimples into her cheeks and crinkles the corners of her eyes. She’s wearing tight blue jeans, a black crop top, and a white half-apron tied around her waist. Fuck, she looks cute. Like she’d actually make a damn good wife.
She is your wife.
“Sorry,” I grin, moving closer to peer into the pot that she’s gone back to stirring.
I dip my finger in, and she slaps my hand. “Hey, you aren’t supposed to do that,” she laughs.
“It smells so damn good. What are you making?” I ask, sucking the sauce off my finger. It’s the perfect blend of creamy and salty.
“Garlic and cheese sauce, fried mushrooms and bacon, and tagliatelle pasta,” she says proudly. “There’s also a nice fresh side salad with rocket and baby tomatoes.”
