So what the hell is wrong with me? Why am I lying here docilely? Is it the drugs?
The humming stops, and I hear his footsteps. Light and quick, but with purpose. He’s coming back with breakfast and that sweet, deadly smile.
And despite everything, despite the handcuffs and the threats and the complete insanity of this situation, I find myself responding to his return with something that feels disturbingly like anticipation.
Cristo, it’s not the drugs. I know exactly what it is.
I’m as fucked up as he is.
Chapter two
Ginni
Ireturn with the breakfast tray, practically floating on air. The French toast looks absolutely perfect, golden brown with just the right amount of powdered sugar dusting. The maple syrup gleams like liquid amber in its little crystal pitcher. I’ve even arranged fresh strawberries in a perfect fan pattern because presentation matters, especially for special occasions.
And this is definitely a special occasion. This is the first breakfast I get to serve my Carlo in our new life together.
He’s exactly where I left him, which is hardly surprising given the quality of the handcuffs. His dark eyes track my every movement as I approach the bed, and I can practically feel the tension radiating from his beautiful body that’s naked under that thin, gray cover.
“I’m not eating that,” he announces before I’ve even set the tray down.
“Of course you are,” I reply cheerfully, settling the tray on the nightstand and perching on the edge of the bed. “You’re alwaysgrumpy when you’re hungry. It’s one of your most endearing qualities.”
I pick up the knife and fork, cutting the French toast into perfect bite-sized pieces with surgical precision. Each piece is exactly the same size, and I drizzle it with just the right amount of syrup. Marco always teases me about being obsessive with food presentation, but Carlo deserves perfection.
“I’m not a fucking child, Ginni. I don’t need to be fed.”
“But you can’t exactly feed yourself right now,” I point out reasonably, spearing a perfect piece with the fork.
The piece of French toast hovers near his mouth, golden and glistening with syrup. I can see his resolve wavering. He’s hungry, I know he is. And it smells absolutely divine.
“This is humiliating,” he mutters, but his lips part slightly.
“It’s intimate,” I correct softly. “How many people have ever taken care of you like this, Carlo? How many people have ever wanted to?”
Something flickers in his eyes, something vulnerable that he quickly tries to hide. But I see it. I always see everything when it comes to him.
He accepts the bite with obvious reluctance, chewing slowly like he’s trying not to enjoy it. But I know my French toast is perfect. I’ve been practicing for months, perfecting the recipe until it’s exactly how he likes it.
“It’s not bad,” he says after swallowing, his voice carefully neutral.
“It’s exceptional, and you know it,” I laugh, cutting another piece. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re trying so hard not to admit how good it is.”
I feed him another bite, then another. The rhythm becomes almost meditative. Cut, drizzle, offer, watch him try to pretend he doesn’t love every second of being cared for like this. It’sadorable how hard he’s fighting against something so simple as breakfast in bed.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he grumbles around a mouthful of French toast.
“I’m enjoying taking care of you,” I correct, dabbing at a tiny drop of syrup that’s escaped the corner of his mouth with my thumb. “There’s a difference.”
Without thinking, I bring my thumb to my lips and suck the syrup off. The taste explodes across my tongue, sweet maple mixed with something that’s purely Carlo, and I have to bite back a moan of pleasure.
Carlo’s eyes widen, his breath catching audibly. “Ginni...”
“What?” I ask innocently, though I can feel heat crawling up my neck. “Waste not, want not.”
The air between us suddenly feels thick, charged with something electric that makes my skin tingle. Carlo is staring at my mouth like he wants to devour me, and the intensity in his gaze makes me shiver with anticipation.
I clear my throat and reach for another piece of French toast, but my hands are trembling slightly now. “More?”
