He nods mutely, and I can see the way his throat works as he swallows hard. This is progress. Real progress. He’s starting to see what this could be like between us.
I feed him the rest of the French toast in increasingly charged silence, hyperaware of every brush of the fork against his lips, every soft sound he makes, every time his tongue darts out to catch a stray crumb. By the time the plate is empty, we’re both breathing a little harder than we should be.
“Water,” he says hoarsely.
I reach for the glass, sliding my hand behind his head to cradle it gently as I bring the water to his lips. His hair is soft between my fingers, and I can feel the warmth of his skin, the rapid pulse at the base of his neck.
He drinks deeply, and I watch the column of his throat move with each swallow. Everything about him is so beautifully masculine, so perfectly made. I could spend hours just cataloguing all the ways he’s gorgeous.
When he’s finished, I set the glass aside and carefully gather the dishes, trying to ignore the way he’s watching my every movement with those dark, intense eyes.
“Ginni, you have to let me go,” he says as I stack everything on the tray.
And just like that, we’re back to this. The sweet intimacy of breakfast dissolves, replaced by his stubborn refusal to accept what’s happening between us.
He’s back to trying to be reasonable again. Trying to appeal to me with logic. It doesn’t suit him at all. He’s a man who takes what he wants, when he wants it. He doesn’t ask.
“Come on, it’s been a fun prank. Unlock the handcuffs, and nobody will ever know.”
His rough voice sounds all wrong in this cadence. It’s a voice meant for growling orders, for making demands, for taking control. Not for begging.
I cross my arms over my chest and glare down at him. He stares back at me with smoldering eyes, darkest hazel, trying to contain his fury but failing.
It’s delicious.
My eyes track down his body. Olive skin stark against my white sheets. A dusting of black chest hair between his dusky broad nipples. The gray cover is sitting just below his well-defined pecs.
It’s tantalizing. A taunt and a tease. The anticipation of getting to slide it down, and down and reveal the rest of my prize, is sending delightful shivers down my spine.
“Fuck’s sake, Ginni!” Carlo shouts.
He throws himself forward, trying to lift off the bed. His arms strain against the handcuffs, muscles bulging in a way that makes my belly swoop.
“Unlock these handcuffs right fucking now or you will regret it for the rest of your life!”
My eyes flutter closed as his growl reverberates through me. That’s better. Much better.
It only took an hour for him to unleash his true, sexy self.
Carlo swears aggressively in Italian. A long, adorable stream. Then the handcuffs clink and he falls silent.
I open my eyes. He has slumped back down onto the pillow. Head turned away from me and facing the blank wall. Sulking.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” he mutters.
I tilt my head. “Number one or number two?”
He turns to face me, eyes blazing. “Have you forgotten to take your fucking meds?”
I rub the palms of my hands over the skin of my arms. Pushing the goosebumps he is giving me into my flesh so I can feel the sensation even more intensely.
“No. I stopped taking them on purpose.”
He scowls ferociously. My nipples peak.
His gaze locks with mine. Carlo is giving me his full, undivided attention. It’s wonderful. It is making me a very happy boy.
He continues to glare. I could lap this up all day. All day every day.
