Chapter Three #3
Instead of answering me, he stubs the cigar in the cheap ashtray and takes an apple from the bag on the table—too far for me to reach.
“Talk,” he simply states.
“Ask,” I retort, looking at the apple and then straight into his eyes.
Fuck, I’m hungry.
What fresh hell time is it? That’s the first thought that painfully pierces my brain. I try to swallow, but my saliva seems to have vanished. It unfortunately reminds me of the cheap vodka and the man from hell, even before I open my eyes.
The horror persists, and so do I.
The cracked taupe ceiling and the spine-killer sofa confirm I didn’t imagine any of this shit.
My throat feels fine, but my shoulder and my cheek, chin, and lip hurt as I open and close my jaw.
Yesterday’s clothes are wrinkled and constricting, the body chain has dug a path into my skin, and with every move, I can feel each ring and bead sinking deeper.
I try to spread my legs, but before going to sleep, the wacko cuffed my ankles as well.
Fucking paranoid. Does he think I’m some kind of Houdini? I wish.
Clang. Tap. Tap. Bang! What’s that noise? I want to sleep. What is he doing? Renovating the shitty place?
“I lost my will to live,” I mutter, rolling on one side. My eyes stay closed as I pull the thin blanket over my face. Blanket? Where did this come from?
“Let’s hope,” I hear Luca spewing from somewhere in the room.
That stronzo made me drink all the vodka yesterday to loosen my tongue. He killed my buzz before it even started with all his questions. At least I slept like a log, but my sore body is paying now for every hard inch of this sleeping trap he calls a sofa.
“Get up!” he orders, his voice too close for my liking.
I can’t get up. I can’t even find my face at this hour—whatever hour it is. I can’t even contemplate eating at this godforsaken time.
“How?” I whine, trying to prove my point by tugging on the cuff and creating the familiar metallic noise.
“If you want breakfast, fucking sit up,” he states.
The smell of bacon and eggs hits my nose, and it’s like an invisible force pulling me up.
My stomach rejoices at the smell of greasy, unhealthy food, and I stretch my legs—as much as I can—and wiggle my hips to lose the tension in my muscles.
Then I rub my caked eyes and yawn noisily before looking around.
Luca is behind the counter. No shirt, only sweats, balancing haphazardly on his hips.
Broad shoulders and mountains of muscles flexing deliciously and bulging on his upper back as he moves.
My eyes follow the trail of the deep ravine down his spine until they reach that gorgeous, quarter-bouncing ass.
How can someone so awful look like a demigod? Not fair.
He shifts, giving me his side. The way his hip bones stick out makes me drool.
The sweatpants are a light gray, faded from time and wear, showing perfectly the outline of his dick.
I lick my dry lips. It seems long and heavy.
Can it actually be that big while soft? It must be arm-sized when standing at attention.
I wish I could cop a feel to double-check, but I’d probably lose my hand. Worth it? Nah. I like my hand.
It’s a crime to cover up such magnificence, though the gray fabric isn’t doing much to hide it. I take it back, this is a nice view to wake up to.
“Good morning, dollop of daisy. Did you sleep well in that huge bed all by yourself?” I’m pushing it. Especially after I experienced his anger on my own skin. But being prudent is just not part of me. A coward, on the other hand…
“The constant verbal diarrhea helps me understand why you live alone.”
Oh right, stalker alert. Still, he knows an awful lot about me.
“Did the asshole suit form due to a hard life, or were you born such a jerk? I dislike you intensely right now.” My mouth is barking, but my eyes keep ogling him.
I know I shouldn’t talk to him like this, but my hungover brain doesn’t seem to give a fuck.
My gaze gets caught by the bite mark on his forearm.
The proof of my fighting side makes me smirk. The brute didn’t expect that.
“Ditto,” he hisses.
“How old are you, five?” I retort too low for him to hear. “I need to go to the bathroom, unless you want me to do it here.” I say the last part before he can refuse. My bladder is at maximum capacity, and my face needs cleansing. I’m practically a skunk.
He turns off the fire under the stove and then walks to the sofa to release my ankles—yanking too hard—and then my hand. I massage my poor wrist and then stand up to stretch, leaning a little toward him. Mmm, he smells good, rich and woodsy.
I’m about to give him a flirty smile when he grabs my elbow and pushes me unceremoniously toward the bathroom.
“Careful! My body is sore. I’m already in need of a bath and a massage,” I clip, but he keeps shoving me. I’ve already had enough waking minutes for one day.
“Stay away from the window,” he orders when we reach the threshold just before thrusting me inside. So rough!
I look at the window and my eyes roll so hard I almost give myself a concussion. The frame is tiny, only a Chihuahua could fit through there.
“How about that plug on the wall? Afraid I’ll worm my way out through those holes? I could communicate in a secret language with that squirrel too?” I point at the tree out on the street. “He’s probably part of the resistance against the bird revolution.”
Before I can slam the door in his face, he catches me by the upper arm and spins me around, stepping so close he puts a foot between mine and cages me against the door.
His hand finds my throat again, tightening dangerously.
I’m frozen as he leans down, bracing his other elbow on the wall beside me and crowding me in even more.
Sweet Mary Magdalene, those eyes. I’ve never seen such a deep shade of green.
The dark intensity of his gaze, combined with the firm set of his jaw and mouth, and those long scars, creates a pretty hot picture.
“Listen carefully, Enzino.” His gruff, raspy, anger-holding, shiver-inducing voice makes me disregard the use of my surname in that spiteful way of his.
“If it weren’t for Fly, you’d be hanging from the ceiling, missing a few limbs, and bleeding to death.
But don’t think for a moment that I won’t make you suffer if you try anything. ”
Instead of feeling terrified—well, I am scared, who wouldn’t when plastered to a wall by a menacing mountain of a man—I’m sensing a tingling sensation starting from my abused throat and slowly spreading through my body.
My dick seems to enjoy this threatening vibe.
Ha! That’s new. I like it rough, but not choking, intimidating rough.
How long have I been without fucking? Three days? I must be desperate to want this wacko. I have every intention of seducing him, getting fucked, and using it to my advantage, but I didn’t think my body would be so into it.
“Who needs an colonoscopy when I have you up my ass all the time,” I taunt, trying to shake off this horny feeling.
“If that were the case, you wouldn’t be able to walk,” he snarls back.
Oh shit, what an image he just put in my head. My hole is clenching with the possibilities, but his disgusted tone irks me.
“Please, you couldn’t set my ass on fucking fire even if there was a match at the end of your dick!” I retort with a light chuckle, pushing my throat against his hand.
His jaw ticks, and I can feel the struggle to hold himself back; his body is trembling with it. Fuck. I went too far. I need to distract him.
“I can hold my breath for three minutes down there, buttercup,” I say in a sultry voice. My hands leave the wall and land on his hard, warm chest.
He stiffens and narrows his eyes at me. “Under water?” His gaze glances at the ancient bathtub on the left before moving back to my face.
Good grace! Is he for real? “I meant on my knees, but if you’d like me to do it underwater…” I trail off suggestively.
He yanks his hand away as if I were on fire and takes a step back. Then he growls at me.
“I need clothes. And before you tell me to shut it, I have no qualms with walking around naked, sugar lips.”
He just walks away, slamming the door behind him. Am I that undesirable? I have a hard road of seducing ahead of me. Straight guys need time to realize the beauty of same-sex frolicking, but I have a feeling this one is going to be harder.
I use the toilet. And then feel a little lightheaded as I reach the sink.
I grab the cold, white edge with both hands.
My reflection in the cracked mirror comes back pale.
The old, smeared makeup and the bruises gave life to a Picasso painting.
I have a cut lower lip and a fingerprint necklace around my throat.
“Art Enzino, your life is still a shit show in Technicolor,” I sigh.
I look down at my bruised wrists and take a deep breath.
My stomach is burning with hunger now. I need to hurry, before my hypoglycemia starts acting up.
I brush my teeth using my finger and the toothpaste I find on the sink.
The bar of soap on the little plastic plate looks cheap, but I use it anyway to wash my face.
The towel smells like Luca, and my nose lingers an extra second before I hang it back on the plastic hook over the horrid, brownish, flowery wall tile.
It would take way too much time and brainpower to sex myself up this early in the morning, plus the wacko took my purse and the little makeup I had in there.
I quickly take off my clothes—turning on the phone and leaving it under the pile—and take a shower.
There is no big towel, so when I’m done I use the small one near the sink again. It gets soaked quickly.