Chapter 2
Chapter two
Ginni
Ireturn with the breakfast tray, practically floating on air.
The French toast looks absolutely perfect, golden brown with just the right amount of powdered sugar dusting.
The maple syrup gleams like liquid amber in its little crystal pitcher.
I’ve even arranged fresh strawberries in a perfect fan pattern because presentation matters, especially for special occasions.
And this is definitely a special occasion. This is the first breakfast I get to serve my Carlo in our new life together.
He’s exactly where I left him, which is hardly surprising given the quality of the handcuffs. His dark eyes track my every movement as I approach the bed, and I can practically feel the tension radiating from his beautiful body that’s naked under that thin, gray cover.
“I’m not eating that,” he announces before I’ve even set the tray down.
“Of course you are,” I reply cheerfully, settling the tray on the nightstand and perching on the edge of the bed. “You’re always grumpy when you’re hungry. It’s one of your most endearing qualities.”
I pick up the knife and fork, cutting the French toast into perfect bite-sized pieces with surgical precision.
Each piece is exactly the same size, and I drizzle it with just the right amount of syrup.
Marco always teases me about being obsessive with food presentation, but Carlo deserves perfection.
“I’m not a fucking child, Ginni. I don’t need to be fed.”
“But you can’t exactly feed yourself right now,” I point out reasonably, spearing a perfect piece with the fork.
The piece of French toast hovers near his mouth, golden and glistening with syrup. I can see his resolve wavering. He’s hungry, I know he is. And it smells absolutely divine.
“This is humiliating,” he mutters, but his lips part slightly.
“It’s intimate,” I correct softly. “How many people have ever taken care of you like this, Carlo? How many people have ever wanted to?”
Something flickers in his eyes, something vulnerable that he quickly tries to hide. But I see it. I always see everything when it comes to him.
He accepts the bite with obvious reluctance, chewing slowly like he’s trying not to enjoy it. But I know my French toast is perfect. I’ve been practicing for months, perfecting the recipe until it’s exactly how he likes it.
“It’s not bad,” he says after swallowing, his voice carefully neutral.
“It’s exceptional, and you know it,” I laugh, cutting another piece. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re trying so hard not to admit how good it is.”
I feed him another bite, then another. The rhythm becomes almost meditative. Cut, drizzle, offer, watch him try to pretend he doesn’t love every second of being cared for like this. It’s adorable how hard he’s fighting against something so simple as breakfast in bed.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he grumbles around a mouthful of French toast.
“I’m enjoying taking care of you,” I correct, dabbing at a tiny drop of syrup that’s escaped the corner of his mouth with my thumb. “There’s a difference.”
Without thinking, I bring my thumb to my lips and suck the syrup off. The taste explodes across my tongue, sweet maple mixed with something that’s purely Carlo, and I have to bite back a moan of pleasure.
Carlo’s eyes widen, his breath catching audibly. “Ginni...”
“What?” I ask innocently, though I can feel heat crawling up my neck. “Waste not, want not.”
The air between us suddenly feels thick, charged with something electric that makes my skin tingle. Carlo is staring at my mouth like he wants to devour me, and the intensity in his gaze makes me shiver with anticipation.
I clear my throat and reach for another piece of French toast, but my hands are trembling slightly now. “More?”
He nods mutely, and I can see the way his throat works as he swallows hard. This is progress. Real progress. He’s starting to see what this could be like between us.
I feed him the rest of the French toast in increasingly charged silence, hyperaware of every brush of the fork against his lips, every soft sound he makes, every time his tongue darts out to catch a stray crumb. By the time the plate is empty, we’re both breathing a little harder than we should be.
“Water,” he says hoarsely.
I reach for the glass, sliding my hand behind his head to cradle it gently as I bring the water to his lips. His hair is soft between my fingers, and I can feel the warmth of his skin, the rapid pulse at the base of his neck.
He drinks deeply, and I watch the column of his throat move with each swallow. Everything about him is so beautifully masculine, so perfectly made. I could spend hours just cataloguing all the ways he’s gorgeous.
When he’s finished, I set the glass aside and carefully gather the dishes, trying to ignore the way he’s watching my every movement with those dark, intense eyes.
“Ginni, you have to let me go,” he says as I stack everything on the tray.
And just like that, we’re back to this. The sweet intimacy of breakfast dissolves, replaced by his stubborn refusal to accept what’s happening between us.
He’s back to trying to be reasonable again. Trying to appeal to me with logic. It doesn’t suit him at all. He’s a man who takes what he wants, when he wants it. He doesn’t ask.
“Come on, it’s been a fun prank. Unlock the handcuffs, and nobody will ever know.”
His rough voice sounds all wrong in this cadence. It’s a voice meant for growling orders, for making demands, for taking control. Not for begging.
I cross my arms over my chest and glare down at him. He stares back at me with smoldering eyes, darkest hazel, trying to contain his fury but failing.
It’s delicious.
My eyes track down his body. Olive skin stark against my white sheets. A dusting of black chest hair between his dusky broad nipples. The gray cover is sitting just below his well-defined pecs.
It’s tantalizing. A taunt and a tease. The anticipation of getting to slide it down, and down and reveal the rest of my prize, is sending delightful shivers down my spine.
“Fuck’s sake, Ginni!” Carlo shouts.
He throws himself forward, trying to lift off the bed. His arms strain against the handcuffs, muscles bulging in a way that makes my belly swoop.
“Unlock these handcuffs right fucking now or you will regret it for the rest of your life!”
My eyes flutter closed as his growl reverberates through me. That’s better. Much better.
It only took an hour for him to unleash his true, sexy self.
Carlo swears aggressively in Italian. A long, adorable stream. Then the handcuffs clink and he falls silent.
I open my eyes. He has slumped back down onto the pillow. Head turned away from me and facing the blank wall. Sulking.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” he mutters.
I tilt my head. “Number one or number two?”
He turns to face me, eyes blazing. “Have you forgotten to take your fucking meds?”
I rub the palms of my hands over the skin of my arms. Pushing the goosebumps he is giving me into my flesh so I can feel the sensation even more intensely.
“No. I stopped taking them on purpose.”
He scowls ferociously. My nipples peak.
His gaze locks with mine. Carlo is giving me his full, undivided attention. It’s wonderful. It is making me a very happy boy.
He continues to glare. I could lap this up all day. All day every day.
But then he ruins it by sighing in surrender. “Number one.”
Actually, this ruins nothing. This is incredible. Best day ever.
I skip off to the bathroom and return with the urinal bottle. I hold it aloft for him to see how clever I am, how I have thought of everything I’m going to need to take care of him.
His eyes widen. His dark, thick eyebrows shoot up.
“Hell no!”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t want to pee the bed, do you?”
“Unchain me and let me go to the goddamn bathroom!”
I give him my best pout. “But then you’d overpower me, and while I’d love that, you’d be boring and only use it to escape.”
“Giovanni!” he snarls.
“Ginni,” I correct sternly.
His nostrils flare as he inhales sharply. “Ginni. Let me go.”
“Not until you’ve come to your senses and accept that we are meant to be together.”
Carlo swears and smashes his hands against the headboard.
“Now, shall I help you pee?”
His eyes narrow. “I’ll hold it.”
“For two weeks? Don’t be silly.”
He mutters something at me and turns away.
I sigh. “Carlo, my love. I’m going to be doing all kinds of things to your dick. Seeing it and putting it into a bottle is nothing more than a polite introduction.”
His eyes snap back to mine. Furious and bright with something else. Something that gives me goosebumps again. His expression looks almost pained. My poor sweetheart. He really is fighting this so hard. My silly man.
I step forward and take hold of the gray cover. Carlo’s entire body tenses. His lips press into a tight line. I can tell he doesn’t want to say no because when I ignore him, he will look foolish.
I slide the cover down. Slowly. Taking my time. Revealing my glorious prize one careful inch at a time.
His body is perfection. The definition of manhood. Broad, firm, defined. A man in his prime. Nothing like the boys my age. Carlo is a real man. Thirty-four. A dad bod. If dad’s worked out and had a scattering of scars from a life of crime.
The cover glides down and down. My heart beats faster and faster.
And then… it’s there. Carlo’s cock.
I glimpsed it when I stripped him, but I didn’t pause to ogle. I’m not a creep. I have standards.
But he is awake now, so I can feast my eyes to my little heart’s content.
I drop the urinal bottle onto the bed, and clasp my hands together in prayer because I am looking at something holy.
It is everything I knew it would be. Thick. Long. Two delicious visible veins running along it. Rich dusky skin tone. A base of neatly manscaped coal-dark pubes.
It’s even slightly hard. Very slightly. As in not completely soft.
It’s a very good start. I’ll take it as a victory.