I’d scrub every floor twice off the memory of that ass and the happy trail to the length that left me drooling. The dick alone had me in a chokehold, constricting my airways with a force that made speaking in tongues a new language.
Thick, dark, and veiny.
Not you describing a Snickers!
The closet stirs awake under motion-sensor lights.
“Someone has a hard-on for black,” I mumble to the walls and lacquered wood floors matching the bedroom.
Panels illuminate curtains of custom suits. I settle on a two-piece navy set and a black button-down. The blazer hangs below my hips, holding up pants skimming the floor. I tuck the shirt in and throw on a pair of dress socks. Shoes are a no-go, unless I want the entire house to hear me clomping around in search of an exit.
“This will have to do,” I say to my reflection in a full-length mirror.
I grab the euros off the nightstand and pop my head out the door to the suite. A large fresco hangs from the ceiling. Pastels swirl with intricate gold over a suspended chandelier.
I squint at the hallway illuminated in sconces and Queen Charlotte finishes. “What kind of Liberace shit is this?” I spin in a slow circle, head tipped at heaven on the ceiling with baby angels.
Going from Wednesday Addams to the Italian Renaissance is a choice.
Either Sir Bennici has a fetish for grand country estates or is an actual sir, like one of those knights of the high court.
What if he lives with his mother or a regal granny who sips tea from hand-painted porcelain while petting a poodle with more curls than Eric LaSalle inComing to America?
Forget him and his granny’s Jheri curls.
I’m not calling him “Sir Bennici.” Benny will have to do.
The tips of my toes press into aged marble, my head on a constant swivel. I follow a flight of stairs with an iron railing. On the lower floor, vacant rooms connect via doorways dressed with molding. There are no windows, clocks, or people.
Huh.
I expected guards, a staff scurrying around like ants, or Alfred. Something.
The belch in my stomach roars with a gurgle. I need an Advil and food. A burger or the entire cow, the way my bruised guts touch my back. The sardine pasta was good, but it wasn’t enough.
A parlor and a series of open rooms blend with decorative wallpaper. The kitchen is down a separate hall and could double as a chapel. Limestone scales the walls to reach tall windows framed in molding. The floor is a testament to whoever keeps the marble buffed. Not a scuff mark or speck of dust in sight.
Modern steel appliances are on opposite sides of an island three times the size of Vince’s in his restaurant. Behind it is a recessed altar with sculpted pillars and a mural painting.
Consecration before dinner.
“Something for the road.” A piece of cheese and I’m out.
I pull one of the two refrigerators open and sigh. Fresh fruits, vegetables, and cured meats on a platter wink. The tray has no time to breathe before I’m fondling mangoes and salami with olives.
“Shondala, two Camrys, and a Honda,” I moan into another olive. Bursts of salty flavor coat my tongue.
A thud startles me from eating the ass out of this refrigerator. My brows hike, my mouth too stuffed with food to scream.
The good news is I didn’t kill Bane.
The bad news is he’s here.
Hands clenched and nostrils flared, his muscles strain what little neck is visible in his all-black suit.
“You’re alive,” I mumble over a hard swallow. “Are you here for a meeting?”
Wrong question.
