“What the hell are you doing?” I demand as he lifts me in his arms like I weigh nothing at all, which isdefinitelynot true. I’ve lost a little weight over the last few months—okay, a lot of weight—but I’m still a grown man, and…
And he’s ignoring my protests, carrying me through into his bathroom in a cradling hold that forces me to put my arms around his neck and justhang on. Kind of a metaphor for our whole acquaintance so far. Him manhandling me however he likes, while I just hold on tight andhope.
He takes me into the bathroom, where he sets me down on the ottoman while he checks the water temperature in the tub.
“Strip,” he says over his shoulder, so I do. Weirdly, he doesn’t watch me. But then he beckons me over and helps me into the water.
“Oh,” I sigh. The water is lukewarm, not hot like I dreaded. I’m so sweaty and sticky all over that it feelsdelicious. I sink right down to my chin and then below, letting my hair soak in the water while I blow bubbles through my nose, resurfacing with a gasp.
“Don’t fucking drown yourself,” Damiano growls.
I blink the water out of my eyes. “I couldn’t if I tried, Dami. Not with you watching over me. Right?”
“Sit still,” is all he says. He starts to wash me down with a cloth, starting with my shoulders, my arms, my torso. My nipples are tight buds, and I’m not sure if it’s in reaction to the temperature of the water or the attention he’s giving them, disguised as washing down my chest.
I guess it doesn’t matter. Not right now.
I loll my head back against the tub and enjoy it. But I can’t help watching through half-lidded eyes the way his muscles shift beneath his skin, the way the ink dances on his arms as he works.
A few minutes in, I break the silence. “Who’s Sammy?”
“We still on that?” he asks flatly.
“We still on that,” I confirm.
I don’t expect an answer, but I get one. “Few years ago I found him getting beat to death behind a gay club by a group of Clemenzas.”
It hurts to hear that—as he intended, I suspect—but I still want to see how much more I can get out of Damiano Orsini while he’s in a giving mood. “And now he works for you?”
“He’s a runner for me. Carries messages. Does odd jobs, brings in the groceries for Rosa. He’s loyal. Good at staying invisible.”
“Have you slept with him?” I ask.
He looks at me, long and hard, his dark eyes unreadable. “I would never demand gratitude that way.”
The relief that floods through me is so intense, it’s dizzying. Good thing I’m already lying down. But why should I care who Damiano Orsini sleeps with?
I home in on his wording to take my mind off disquieting thoughts. “You say you don’t demand gratitude that way,” I echo him. “But that’s not quite true, Dami, is it? When I wanted the townhouse?—”
“When you wanted the townhouse, you made me an offer. Not my fault you decided to get on your knees. That was all you.”
That’s what he says, but guilt flickers across his features like lightning—there and gone so fast I almost miss it. He turns to pick up a sponge this time and lathers it with soap.
“I can wash myself, you know.”
“You’re mine,” he replies. “If I don’t take care of you, you’ll break. And I hate broken things.”
The words are designed to remind me that I’m his property, that I belong to him whether I like it or not. Instead, they send heat spiraling through me, and I have to bite back a moan as he starts to sponge me down.
What iswrongwith me?
I order my brain to put aside bliss, since my body won’t play along. And for a precious moment, rational thought kicks inagain—because it occurs to me that Damiano Orsini islying, right after I made him promise not to.
He doesn’t hate broken things. If anything, it’s the opposite.
Look at Rosa. Vito. Sammy. He gathers up broken things and keeps them in his care.
He runs the sponge all over me, soaping me up. Down my arms, over my collarbone, across my nipples that are too sensitive, too responsive to his touch. When he moves under the water to my stomach, I can’t suppress a shiver.
