“Aww,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Look at you, caring about my well-being. Maybe you shouldn’t have kidnapped me if you’re so worried about my appetite.”
That’s it.
“Fuck it.”
I cross the room in three strides. She tries to scramble back on the bed, but I’m faster. I bend, hook an arm around her waist, and haul her up and over my shoulder in one smooth motion.
She screams, it’s loud, indignant, and way too fucking sexy.
“Put me down, you Neanderthal!” She pounds her fists against my back, squirming like a wildcat. Her ass is right next to my face, round and perfect in those tight leggings, bouncing with every hit she lands on me. I have to fight the sudden, violent urge to bring my palm down hard on it.
“Keep fighting me and I’ll spank this ass right here,” I growl, my hand hovering dangerously close to the curve I’m staring at. “And trust me, princess, I won’t be gentle.”
She freezes for half a second, then starts kicking harder, her hips twisting against my shoulder. The movement rubs her body against mine in all the wrong ways. Heat shoots straight to my cock.
“I hate you!” she snarls, but her voice is breathier than before.
“Yeah?” I say, carrying her out of the room. “Keep telling yourself that while you wiggle your ass is in my face begging to be spanked.”
She makes a frustrated sound that goes straight to my groin. I tighten my grip on the back of her thighs, fingers digging in just enough to remind her who’s in control, and start down the stairs.
Her sweater rides up, exposing a strip of smooth skin at her lower back. I want to bite into it. This woman is going to be the death of me.
I carry her straight into the dining room and set her down on her feet beside the chair to my right.
“Sit.”
She huffs, shooting me a murderous glare, but drops into the seat and folds her arms tightly across her chest like a sulking child.
“Eat,” I say, taking my own seat at the head of the table. “My housekeeper, Lea, went all out making dinner.”
She doesn’t move.
I pick up my knife and fork and start eating, deliberately ignoring her. For a few minutes the only sounds are the clink of my silverware and the low crackle of the candles. But I can feel her eyes on my plate. Every time I cut into the perfectly seared steak, her gaze follows the fork to my mouth. She’s starving. She’s just too damn stubborn to admit it.
Then her stomach lets out a loud, embarrassing growl. I smirk, lifting my eyes to hers. Her cheeks flush.
“Are you sure about not being hungry?”
Finally, she snaps. She reaches across the table without asking, spears a piece of steak from my plate with her fork, and shoves it into her mouth, staring me dead in the eyes the entire time like it’s a declaration of war.
I watch her chew, amused. “Get your own plate.”
She scoffs and starts filling her own plate, taking extra of the risotto, then two pieces of the warm focaccia, and a generous helping of the burrata salad. I notice she keeps going back to the risotto and the sweet balsamic tomatoes, eating like she’s been starved for days.
Why the hell am I cataloging what she likes? I catch myself staring at the way she licks a stray drop of balsamic from her lower lip and have to look away.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
She’s a hostage. Yet here I am, staring at how her damp hair curls at the ends, how she sighs softly when she tastes something she really likes, how her tongue darts out to catch every flavor.
I pour myself more wine and take a long sip, trying to shove the dangerous thoughts back where they belong.
This woman has been in my house for less than twelve hours and she’s already turning my head inside out.
I need this situation resolved. Soon.
Before I do something stupid like start caring what the hell Eleonora Caruso wants for breakfast tomorrow.
