Luciu's apartment was like Aoife and Finn's—expensive.
Big.
Luxurious.
I loved it.
I loved every inch.
From the marble-tiled hall to the massive lounge where I could see Lady Liberty peering at me.
I loved the jewel colors of the fabrics that decorated the space because it wasn't cold and brittle, no minimalism here. In fact, if anything, it had a distinctly Aladdin-esque feel to it.
Squashy sofas, low footstools, patterned metal corner tables, colorful rugs...
It was nothing like I imagined, but it suited him.
I wasn’t sure why, not when he stood there, watching me look around his home as calm as a lion who’d just eaten a whole gazelle. Yet while he presented the look of a mogul, this was distinctly old-school.
I hadn't been able to find anything on Google about him, exactly like I said, but I had researched Sicily.
I knew that they had a massive Moorish influence on their culture, and it was reflected in this space. Which told me more about him than he could possibly know.
He might be in New York, he might be a Don, he might kill people for a living and have a secret network of offices in an old meat-packing warehouse that housed a hotspot club, but culture mattered to him.
His heritage was an important part of his life.
Last night had been long, and I hadn’t slept all that well, not in the aftermath of having been shuffled out of the odd corridor of kill rooms into a secret tunnel that took me out onto the roadside where I’d been dumped into a taxi that had sent me back to my place—which, in the grand scheme of things, wasn’t exactly comforting. He wasn’t wrong about it being a shithole—but for the first time, I felt like I could take a deep breath.
This felt like a home.
Sandalwood in the air, a pleasant heat that settled in my bones, deep carpets that my toes longed to curl into, and a sofa I wanted to read a Lisa Kleypas novel on…
This place wasn’t to my taste, but it was divine and made me question what my taste even was.
Did I have something against beauty?
No. And that was this penthouse.
He led me toward a dining table, rich teak, carved with hundreds of tiny flowers, via an archway that had a high point and glinted with small touches of gold leaf. It could have been too much, but it wasn’t. It was beautiful.
I registered that he held out a chair for me, but after watching me twist around to look at all the different little design details, he sank into the seat at the head of the table—right beside the one he’d pulled out for me.
I had no idea what made me do it, none whatsoever, but I ignored him and moved around to the opposite end and sank onto the seat there.
As I did, I caught his eye, and rather than finding annoyance within their depths at my rudeness, I found delight.
He liked my disobedience.
My stomach twisted at the sight, but the amusement in his expression had me relaxing back against the chair that was more like a throne.
A woman darted in, speaking a language I didn't understand. It could have been Sicilian or Italian for all I knew, but Luciu spoke to her with an authority that was unmistakable. While I was aware that I didn’t understand the words, I knew he was kind to her.
That mattered.
So many of the men I dated were outright bastards to their help, but not Luciu.
I wasn’t sure why I was surprised.
The woman, covered with a colorful headscarf, laughed, revealing bright white teeth before she turned to me, her smile dying somewhat, a facade slamming into place like she didn't trust me.
She was probably wise.
I wasn't a very trustworthy person.
Although Aoife clearly didn't think I was unworthy of her friendship, and I'd definitely been a pain in the ass to her over the years.
"Would you like mint tea or coffee for breakfast?"
Luciu's prompt had me turning away from the older woman with the suspicious eyes and answering, "Mint tea, please."
I sensed that he thought I’d go for coffee. Seeing as he’d had me investigated, I wasn’t sure how he’d know that because I’d barely been able to go to Starbucks once since Christmas.
"Would you like eggs?"
"I'll have whatever you're having."
I might not eat most of it, but that wouldn't stop me from trying it. I loved new cuisines, and I knew that what they served in those fancy schmancy restaurants was sometimes night and day to the culture the eateries were attempting—and failing—to emulate.
When the woman scampered away, her long skirts brushing the floor, the long shirt-like dress moving with it, I turned back to my host and saw him studying me.
"She's Sicilian?"
"She isn’t. She’s actually Russian."
"What language does she speak?"
"She knows Italian, but we talk in her dialect."
"And you speak that?"
"I speak many languages."
That really shouldn’t have been so hot.
"She has a specific dialect I picked up for her though." His mouth curved at the corners. "She didn't like you."
Amused that he’d picked up on that when men were usually clueless, I grinned at him. "A lot of women don't."
"Ah, but Alina dislikes you for a different reason, I'm sure."
"What reason would that be?"
That infuriating smile danced about his lips once again. "It doesn't matter. She'll ease up."
Would she really need to?
It surprised me that he allowed his staff to have opinions about his guests, but Luciu was full of surprises.
The most shocking thing of all? His actions, his posturing, didn’t piss me off.
When he'd torn the shirt I'd been wearing off my body, my heart had raced in my chest—not with fear, like it might with another man, but with excitement.
Yet he could joke with the woman who cooked him breakfast like they were old pals.
Curious, curious.
"I met Alina when I liberated her and her daughter from a sweatshop over in Queens." He leaned back against his chair, his hands curving around the ornately carved pommels of the arm rests. "She was grateful."
"I'll bet." My brow puckered with consternation. We liked to think that those kinds of places existed only in developing nations, but they were everywhere.
And in the anonymity of the city that never slept, they could pop up wherever a man looking to make a quick buck wanted.
"How long ago was that?"
"Back in the early days. She's been with me for years."
He smiled when Alina reappeared, this time with a silver tray in her hands. Complete with two tiny glasses and a large, tarnished silver teapot that was decorated with flowers, which she placed on the table.
I watched as the two talked, the animation between them enough to make me wish I understood the language, before she poured the tea into the glasses.
The amber brew streamed out of the thin spout, with smoky eddies of steam curling from the rim.
She plunked one in front of me, after she snagged a small dish from the same tray, and on it, there were tiny cookies.
I ignored those and instead picked up the tea. The glass was hot enough to sting my fingers, but I sipped at it, enjoying the intensely sweet concoction.
Alina disappeared after chatting with Luciu, ignoring me entirely, but once she was gone, I couldn't stop myself from asking, "How long have you been in the States?"
"Ten years."
"Only ten? Your accent isn't as strong as I'd have thought." I was coming to realize that he picked and chose his accent. That was kind of cool.
Sometimes, he sounded American, other times he sounded Sicilian.
The Sicilian came out around me.
Because I tested his control?
How I hoped that was the truth…
"My mother is British. I learned English from the cradle." Sorrow swept over his expression like a bank of clouds over the sun on a summer's day. "She met my father when she was on vacation in Catania. Her first vacation as an adult. Theirs was a love match."
More grief shadowed his expression, and that he revealed that to me had me settling back against my own throne, feeling a little more at ease.
The truth was, I had no idea why I was here. Had no idea why I was chasing the devil when I knew he was bad—so bad —for me, but that was how temptation worked.
A man didn't give a woman like me a credit card with close to fifty grand on it for nothing.
He wanted something, and that was obvious, but when he revealed his emotions to me, it made things seem less cut and dry.
Less business deal and more…
Well, I didn’t know what. I’d never been in this situation before.
Men gave me shit, and I gave them arm candy, blowjobs, and higher self-esteem.
Something told me Luciu wasn’t lacking in the self-esteem department.
Which meant he was a wild card.
I tugged on my bottom lip. "You said that your mother lived in your house in Brooklyn. Not your father?"
"He was murdered," was his simple reply, but the torment in his voice told me more than his words ever could.
"Ten years ago?"
"Yes."
I swallowed. "Oh."
"Yes, that about sums it up."
"I'm sorry, Luciu."
He reached forward for the small glass of mint tea. "You didn't murder him."
"No. I didn’t," I said. "I don't murder people often."
"Unless they deserve it?"
A smile danced about my lips. "Maybe not even then. My boss probably deserves it, but I somehow manage not to poison his coffee with arsenic."
"What does he do to deserve it?"
"Shoves all his work onto me, and I do it because I want a promotion."
"You handle all of his accounts?"
"I’m not supposed to, but yes. He’s grown lazy because he knows how competent I am." My nose crinkled. "I’m hoping at the next quarterly review, he’ll put me up for a promotion."
His head tipped to the side and, slowly, carefully , he asked, "Why would he promote you if you do all his work? He wouldn't want to lose you, would he? Not if he’s reliant upon you for things he shouldn’t be."
For a second, I could only gape at him, then I slumped in my chair. "Damn, why didn't I see that?"
"Because you're thinking like a worker. Not a boss." His crooked smile made an appearance, but it didn't make me feel any less stupid.
I tugged at the turtleneck that blanketed my throat and muttered, "I’m kinda mad at myself now."
"I'm surprised you let him take advantage of you."
The ominous gloom shrouding his voice had nerves filtering through me, especially with his choice of words, but I merely reasoned, "I’m sure that you’ve seen my background."
"I have. I see nothing to be ashamed of."
"I didn't go to a fancy college. I was lucky to get the job I did."
"Luck had nothing to do with it. He hired you because of your qualifications—"
"He hired me because of my tits," I drawled.
"You have a nice set of tits, that's for sure," he confirmed, tone wry. "But I don't think his bosses would have allowed him to take you on if you were completely unsuitable for the job. You're not a PA if I understand it."
"No. I'm an account assistant." My boss just treated me like I was a PA. I tapped my fingers against the table. "I intend on learning everything I can from him before I strike out on my own, but I need more experience first. I won’t get that stuck in this same position though."
"Has he forced himself on you?"
"Why? Would you slice off his dick if he had?" I taunted, irritated by how he was dissecting my life.
"If you asked me to. If you didn't, I might just threaten to."
Though his statement, and the ease in which he offered it, left me shaken, I merely took another sip of tea. "Men often make advances. You can't slice off all their dicks. You'd get a reputation."
"I already have one. I'm known for my skills with a knife."
I had no idea why that, of everything he'd said, made me flinch, but it did.
"You have a reputation with a knife?" I whispered.
"I do."
"What kind of reputation?" But even as I asked the question, I knew the answer.
I thought back to last night, to the deep cut in Damian's cheek, and I pressed my finger to the same curve on my own face.
He nodded. "A signature move."
"Jesus," I rasped, unsure if I wanted to run away or...
Or, what?
It wasn't like I was a prisoner here.
He'd invited me. He hadn't forced me to come.
I'd gotten dressed, I'd locked my door, and I'd gotten into the car and out of it of my own free will.
I wanted to be here.
I just didn't understand why.
Was it because of what he said?
That we had a connection?
Only that logic was flawed because I didn't trust connections.
To my mind, they made people do crazy shit, and I had enough crazy in my life without adding to it.
I studied him, aware that he was studying me, awaiting my response.
"You're scared," he said flatly.
"Wouldn't you be? In my shoes?"
"No, because I already told you that I mean you no harm."
"Damian once told me the same thing, but he could have date-raped me," was my gruff retort.
"Never liken me to that bastard. I have my flaws, but that is not one of my sins."
"No, but you have a dozen others on your conscience."
"Are you Catholic?"
"No, but I was raised in the faith. Sort of."
"My files on your mother would not indicate she raised you that way."
"She was a party girl," I confirmed. "But she went to church. You did that when you lived in Aidan O'Donnelly's world."
"What ties you to him?"
"We lived in a—" My eyes widened as a singular realization struck me. One that made the hurt behind Savannah’s confession pain me even more.
You’re Padraig O’Donnelly’s illegitimate daughter, Jen, and I have the DNA test results to prove it.
He didn’t notice that I felt like I’d been speared in the belly with one of the forks on the table, just asked, "Where did you live? I have the address, but I don't think that is what you meant to say."
"He owned the building where we lived," I said dully.
Had Paddy known about me? Is that why we lived in a building owned by Acuig?
Of course, that had been back in the day. Acuig hadn't been as much of a big deal as it was now.
Their real estate portfolio in the early nineties had been small and crowded, high occupancy, high rents, small pigeonholes because they had a central location.
I reached up and rubbed at my forehead where an ache was gathering.
Mom could never have afforded a place like that, not on her own. Not with a baby.
Paddy or Aidan had to have known about me. They must have given her a discount on the rent or something.
I swallowed, somehow more disappointed by that than I'd have liked.
My father or uncle had known of my existence but had never acknowledged me, even though I'd been on the periphery of Aidan Sr.'s world since Aoife had married Finn.
I'd eaten at his goddamn table at Christmas dinner.
Had slept under his roof—
"Cara mia , what is it?"
Taken from my thoughts by Luciu's question, I turned to him and blurted out the first thing that came to mind that wasn’t in relation to my family secret, "Gomez Addams calls Morticia that."
He grinned. "Yes, he does. But many Italians call their women that."
"I'm not your woman."
He just hummed. But there was a spark dancing in his eyes as Alina returned, this time with another tray loaded with food.
She came to me first, placing a dish in front of me, one that had a small brioche loaf on it. The bread gleamed a rich golden brown, and there was a ball on it, which made the entire thing look like a bun on a woman’s head. Beside that, there was an ornate glass filled with a slick portion of shaved ice that was so thick and wet, it was unlike any slushie I’d had before.
She served Luciu then returned with the teapot to fill my glass, did the same for him, then disappeared back into the kitchen. At least, that was where I assumed she went.
Curious as to how to eat this when it seemed like a weird combination, I watched as Luciu ripped the top of the brioche off and scooped up some granita with it.
"Well, I didn't think that was how you'd eat it."
He pointed to the tip of the bun in his hand as he tore it off, and said, "This is a special kind of brioche. In Sicily, they make it with Marsala wine and honey. This part is called a tuppo, and that’s where its name comes from—brioche col tuppo. You eat that part first. You’re not supposed to have it with mint tea, but it’s my favorite."
"Why do you eat it in winter?"
"Because I can." Then, he shrugged. "Makes me think of Catania."
"You miss it?"
"Very much. I haven't been back in years."
"Ten?" I guessed.
He nodded. "Too much to do."
"That's sad. Life's too short."
"It is when it's robbed from you." His lips pursed, his jaw clenched, and his anger seemed to surge over his face, his rage transmitting itself to me as much as if I were experiencing it myself. "My father..."
"When he died, had you fallen out?" I queried softly, reading between the lines and wondering if that was the source of his guilt.
No rage like that was purely based on grief. On a desire for vengeance.
As little as there’d been on Google about him, there was plenty about Benito Fieri—the previous Don who’d inherited the seat from his father who’d reigned over the city for decades.
Fieri’s time at the top was over now though. He had gone missing before he’d been fished out of the Hudson just before fall swept over Manhattan. Prior to his death, his youngest kid had gone missing, and his eldest had been shivved in jail.
Last year had really sucked if you had Fieri has a surname.
I had to wonder if their downfalls were because of Luciu.
He said that years of planning had led to this moment; those plans had definitely come to fruition this year. The only remaining Fieris in the city were wives and daughters. I’d read an article in the Times about the uptick in violence between Italian men believed to be a part of the mafia…
A lot of men who shared a surname with the previous Don now graced slabs in the morgues or were already buried, something reporters had been speculating on for the last couple of weeks.
I mimicked him, scooping some granita up with a spoon to see what it tasted like—espresso. Rich. Dark. Sugary.
Apparently, Alina and Luciu didn't believe in diabetes.
I did as he had, copying him, but I preferred the two separate, so I started eating the ice and left the brioche for after.
Well aware, that with every bite I took, he was watching me.
Contemplating whether to tell me the truth or not?
Not that I needed confirmation he’d argued with his father prior to the elder Valentini’s death…
"We had a falling out, yes."
Pleased, not about being right but that he’d confided in me, I asked, "About what?"
"Do you really wish to know?"
"Why wouldn't I? You said I could ask you anything, didn’t you?"
"I didn't imagine it would be about my father."
Though he drawled that, a flicker of amusement to his comment, I knew he was hurting.
Knew he was trying to make light out of it.
"I could always ask you about the size of your dick, but I've already felt it. Some questions I prefer to get the answers with my hands."
His eyes burned with the light of hellfire as he watched me spoon some granita up and slip it between my lips, his focus on my hands.
"So? Why had you fallen out?" I prompted before he thought he could bend me over the table and blanket me with some of that fire.
"He owned an accounting firm in Catania. He wanted me to take over the helm when he retired."
"And you didn't want to?"
"No. I didn't."
"What did you want to do?"
His mouth twisted as he reached for the brioche and then bit into it. A large mouthful that kept him quiet for a moment.
"I wanted to be a lecturer in college," he eventually answered when I made no move to fill the silence.
He watched me, waited for my response, and I knew he thought I'd be surprised, but I wasn't.
Having met each of the O'Donnelly sons, I knew that there was more to a mobster than the slick suit, the expensive watches, and the high-rise apartments.
Finn rode a desk now, but everyone who was raised in a Five Pointer neighborhood knew how it worked.
Wetwork first, then you rose through the ranks.
Finn had blood on his hands, as much as any other Five Pointer, but I'd seen him watching Disney movies with Jacob.
I knew he had to work out two hours a day because he enjoyed Aoife's cooking so much...
People were multifaceted.
They might kill or evade taxes for a living, but that didn't mean that was the sum total of their day.
Everyone had hopes and dreams—even if their career choice meant they robbed other men of their hopes and dreams.
"What would you have lectured in?"
"History."
"A specific period?"
His mouth curved. "You wish to know?"
"Why would I ask if I didn't?"
He dipped his chin. "I specialized in Sicilian history, then micro-specialized in my patrilineal ancestry."
"A patriot through and through," I commented.
"Yes."
I studied him, the tension around his eyes that hadn't abated since we'd spoken about his father, and I just had to know.
I had to know.
So, I asked, "May I use the restroom?"
He turned his gaze back onto me with as much intensity as I showed him.
"If you leave this room, and turn left, it is at the end of the hall. There are three bedrooms. One is mine; one is for Stan when he stays here, and the last one is empty. You will see I hide no wife here."
Unashamed about being caught out, I tipped up my chin. "Which is your room?"
He straightened, the chair scraping against the floor as he did so. "I will show you."
"You said yourself that your wife would live with your mother."
"She would if I was the kind of man who liked to tuck his possessions away," he concurred.
I had no idea why that sent shivers down my spine, but it did.
"And you're not that kind of man?"
He made it to my side, loomed over me a second, then pressed his finger to the curve of my cheek. "No, duci , I like to play with my toys."
My nostrils flared. "I'm not a plaything."
"Aren't you? Aren't we all with the right person?"
I shoved the chair backward, but he was there, his hand held out like a gentleman as if he expected me to help steady myself with his hold.
I ignored it and him. "Lead the way."
He smirked at my command but silently led me to a hallway, and with a docility that stunned the heck out of me, guided me to a room that stole my breath away.
It was like something from a pasha's palace.
A gorgeous antique bed that could sleep four was the focal point. There was no headboard, just scattered cushions that were beyond impractical.
It was also round.
And absolutely beautiful.
"This is like Hugh Heff was a Sheikh in olden times or something."
Luciu laughed but said nothing, just leaned beside the door as he watched me move around the room.
It was hard not to feel like I was at the center of a set of crosshairs with how fierce his focus was on me.
I liked it though. In fact, I more than liked it.
It made me feel relevant.
Alive.
Worthy of being watched.
Gnawing on my bottom lip at the thought, I shifted my attention to the bedroom, but though it was ornate, it wasn’t feminine. And there were no distinctly feminine touches to appease my curiosity.
Small seating areas made out of large jewel-colored floor cushions were dotted here and there, cushions I couldn’t imagine this indomitable man resting on. Little tables, made out of beaten silver, which had tiny ornaments on them that glinted in the light, were scattered around.
The rugs were old, had the patina of age on them, but were all the more beautiful for it.
The room scented of incense, rich and luxuriously sensual. The overtones of frankincense in here were warming and sumptuous.
Nothing about this apartment spoke of the man, yet when I turned back to look at him, I saw the twinkle of humor in his eyes and shook my head—he was at ease in here.
This, somehow, was the real Luciu Valentini.
"I would never have imagined you slept in a room like this," I rasped, surprise making my voice husky.
"Where's the joy in a soulless, white-walled room? Minimalism is for prisons. I, cara mia, am not in jail."
I thought about my exes, how their homes were exactly as he said—soulless .
White leather, white walls, white rugs. Silver finishes, sometimes black. All stark lines and chilly atmosphere.
"Maybe that's the historian in you," I replied, surprised by how enchanted I was by this place.
Then again, Aladdin always had been my favorite Disney movie.
Maybe one of these Persian rugs could take me on a magic carpet ride…
"Perhaps."
"Is everything in here antique?"
"Yes."
I bit my lip as I took in the panels on the wall, heavily carved, then studied the glass chandelier overhead that made little bursts of color dance around the space.
It was charming. Nothing that I could have expected and all the more delightful for it.
I twisted back to look at him. "Where's your closet?"
"Over there." He pointed, his grin making a reappearance because he knew where I was taking this.
It stunned me that he was willing to allow me this liberty.
Stunned and pleased .
With a sniff at his grin even though it scorched me from the inside out, I followed his guide and headed over to a heavily patterned doorway that I could have missed because it looked like a decorative panel.
Before I opened it, he murmured, "And what, vita mia , do you owe me when you realize you’re wrong?"
I’d been calm. Enchanted by the room, comforted by it. His question changed all that. It made my heart pound. I felt my body begin to simmer like, after being left in the cold, it was finally starting to warm up.
I twisted around to face him and gave him the truth, "Whatever you want."
That hellfire made another reappearance, and I nearly staggered back against the wall, slumping into it as he raked me from head to toe with a glance.
No part of me was left untouched, every inch of me was caressed by his stare.
"Then you’d better quench your suspicions," he told me, but that rumble in his voice let me know exactly how affected he was.
Feeling like I’d been dumped in the Sahara at midday, when my ass was most definitely in frigid New York, I came across a modern kind of walk-in closet. So opposite to what was beyond this area that I had to shake my head. This was minimal, space-saving, but expansive.
It smelled of his aftershave.
I closed my eyes and sucked in a breath.
It smelled of him .
Intoxicating.
I wanted… Christ, how I wanted.
And I never wanted. Nothing aside from cash, security, at any rate.
Forcing myself to concentrate, I saw that it was open plan so every inch of it was available for my perusal. The compartments were filled with suits, and I didn't care that I was prying—he wanted me here—I went to the drawers, and I pulled them open, curious to see if a woman had left anything behind.
I found nothing.
Relief had never been sweeter.
"I never bring women here."
I jumped at the proximity of his voice, spinning around and finding him looming in the doorway.
"Why did you bring me then?" I rasped, hand flying to cover my heart.
To protect it?
Would any part of me be safe now that I was in Luciu Valentini’s sights?
"Because I wish to sleep with you and seeing as you've made it abundantly clear that you don't like murder, I think I can sleep with you without you trying to kill me."
His words disarmed me enough to make me dissolve into laughter. "That's some logic."
He tapped his temple, his gaze on my hand still covering my heart. "I'm pretty clever when I try."
"I can see that."
"What's the verdict? Do I have a wife or not?"
"I met her," I insisted.
"And still you came to me last night." He tilted his head to the side. "Why did you?"
"Because I wanted to," I said with a huff. "It was just a hookup."
"Nothing could ever be so transient between you and me.”
"That's all we can ever have," I countered.
"That sounds like a challenge, and trust me, you don't want to challenge me."
I squinted at him. "Are you aware you're a pain in the ass?"
"Yes, I'm also aware that you're likely the only person who'd tell me that. Aside from my brother and sister, of course." He smirked at me, a cocky twist of the lips. "Another reason why I want to sleep with you."
"Because I tell it how it is?"
"Yes. Although I didn’t know this until last night." His perusal of me grew more intense as he said, "I liked it when you stared up at me with dazzled eyes; I liked it when you were breathy and shy around me, but I think I prefer this. Whoever pretended to be my wife has done me a favor."
My nostrils flared at his admission.
He couldn’t…
No.
Impossible.
But…
He was…
He liked me?
He actually liked me?
The snarky Jen who had most people grinding their teeth. The bitchy Jen who only Aoife and Savannah had ever laughed at—and maybe Savannah had been making that up.
Very few people liked me. Men never did. They just wanted to fuck me, and I was more than okay with that.
Until now, I suddenly wasn’t.
"Why would someone pretend to be your wife?" I questioned before I melted into the tiles beneath my feet.
"Because I'm a rich and powerful man. I'm also single. Why wouldn't someone try to take out the competition?"
"You know that makes you sound like a prick, right?"
He grinned. "You've felt my prick. You know I have no reason not to be confident."
I rolled my eyes, but my ass clenched at the memory of him pounding into me.
Then, of course, my pussy got involved.
"The next time you walk into my bedroom, you'll be naked," he rasped.
My shoulders jerked as I straightened up. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." His eyes gleamed. "No clothes past the door."
Then, he did the damnedest thing.
He stripped, and it was better than that show I'd dragged Aoife and her sisters-in-law to last year.
With each item of clothing he dropped to the ground, he revealed every luscious inch of him that had, thus far, been hidden from me.
Long, lean muscles made an appearance, silken skin faintly brushed with hair.
His strength was there, corded and coiled. But it was how he moved that entranced me.
He was a predator.
I should have been his prey, but he didn’t want that from me.
He didn’t.
Why would he like me if he did?
I was a pretty predator, one who lulled men into thinking that I was a lot more docile than I was. One who wanted rich men to believe that I was vacant between the ears, that my one purpose in this world was to look beautiful and to be good in bed.
But Luciu saw beyond the surface.
I wasn’t sure why or how, yet he did.
Which entranced me.
He saw an equal.
I wanted, so badly, to be that equal.
Reaching for the hem of my turtleneck, I started to drag it overhead. If we were going to sleep together, I didn’t want anything between us either.