She chuckles. “You say that like you’ve been breaking into houses your whole life.” Her smile drops when my expression doesn’t change. “Have you?” She asks seriously.
“I killed every member of the Camorra in their own homes.”
She frowns. “What’s the Camorra?”
“The mafia that once ruled southern Italy.”
She finishes her juice and stands.
“Let’s have this conversation in the sitting room.”
I wipe my face and rise. She picks up my glass and holds it out to me.
“I don’t drink juice.”
She brings it to my lips. “It has vitamins, minerals, and antioxidants. Drink it like a good boy.”
I lift an eyebrow at her choice of words, wrap my fingers around her hand, and drink the red, sweet-sour thing.
“You don’t call a man who’s fourteen years older than you ‘boy,’ princess.”
She sets the glass down and takes my hand, leading me to a room I haven’t seen before—their family sitting room. It’s spacious, with large windows covered in dull green curtains. Long couches placed in the center. The room is filled with natural light, and despite its size, it feels comfortable.
She leads me to a couch, and we settle onto it. She turns to face me, tucking one leg beneath her.
“I can call you whatever I want. You’re my man.” She declares it like a fact.
I wrap my arm around her and pull her closer
“That’s right. I’m your man. But you still can’t call me a boy.”
She grins. “Or what?”
I kiss her smiling mouth. She hums, responding softly, slowly.
“Or you’ll have that sore little pussy of yours spanked.” I murmur against her lips.
She chuckles. “That word sounds so strange in your mouth.”
I lean back into the couch. “Why?”
She rests against my chest. “You rarely use words like that.”
She sits up abruptly. “But you very comfortably use words like slut and whore.” She purses her lips tightly. “And for me, no less.”
“I’m sorry for that. I was in too much pain and anger.”
She turns her face away. “Whatever. You called me a slut and a whore. I’m not talking to you.”
I stare at her.
She glances back at me. “What are you looking at? Appease me. I’m mad.”
“How?”
She groans and hits my chest with her small fist—barely any force behind it. If anything, her hands on my bare skin feel fucking incredible.
“Read research papers on this too. How am I supposed to show my face to anyone if they find out my boyfriend doesn’t even know how to appease me?”
