Chapter Eight Tyler
Chapter Eight
TYLER
MOUTHWATERING SMELLS WAFT into my nose as I enter my penthouse after another day of avoiding her.
Opting out of trying to coax any more from her after another pointless back-and-forth this morning.
I came dangerously close to indulging my anger when she sipped the glass she had prepared, which contained the last scoops of my green mix, before tossing it in the sink.
“Disgusting,” she’d said. I stared longingly at the wasted liquid before stalking up to her and demanding she start typing. She’d scoffed as I invaded her space, and I realized my fuckup as her divine perfume surrounded me.
Her silky black locks were piled atop her head as she whisked eggs, wearing a paper-thin white crop top—sans bra.
The cut of it showcasing her perfectly rounded tits, which plumped out on either side.
Her quarter-sized, rose-colored nipples—erect and clearly outlined.
The color is ingrained in my memory because of the time I spent savoring them in my mouth.
Her sleep shorts clung to the very top of her muscular thighs.
Her feminine physique—curvy and perfectly toned.
Everything’s a choice. People who act on their desires, even if they claim they can’t control themselves, are liars. When they act, they make a decision to do so.
The thing is, I’m self-aware enough that I know I want to act, so it’s easier to ignore her appeal. The strength of it is a level I haven’t felt since …
Pausing just inside the front door, I close my eyes at the fast-surfacing memory of Delphine staring up at me as I pinned her to the side of her house.
Her flawless lips parted, watery eyes hooded.
The recollection of the night I finally touched her intimately, utterly untarnished by time.
Her reaction to me turning me on in a predatory way.
A way that stoked my desire, though I pressed that down, way down, and instead assured her of my affection.
Since, I’ve learned there’s a thread-thin line between a woman’s fantasy of being dominated and the reality of it once it starts—at least with me.
Stalking into the kitchen, I dump my messenger bag on the divider atop my island and immediately take in the sight of her bare feet before darting my gaze around.
Brown bags lie empty on their sides, ingredients covering every inch of my counters.
She doesn’t so much as look up as she carefully pours olive oil into divots of homemade focaccia bread.
“You eat entirely too much takeout, and I had a craving for home,” she states as my eyes drift up the peak of toned calves in the slit of her black cotton dress.
Her hair cascading just as freely in waves down her shoulders.
Matching, Edwardian-crafted diamond and emerald bracelets glitter on each of her wrists.
In this setting, she looks every bit the way an Italian princess would. Her posture exudes a confidence I’ve seen few women of her age carry. Only midway through her twenties, her at-ease expression relays she knows exactly who the fuck she is.
“Madonna,” she draws out in frustration at my expression. “It’s dinner. Eat it or don’t,” she relays simply as she sprinkles a little seasoning from a nearby ramekin into one of her simmering sauces.
The vision of her in my kitchen stuns me, as absolutely every fucking thing about the sight in front of me threatens to solder itself in my brain.
It takes me a solid ten seconds to shut it down before deciding to head to my office.
My irritation further provoked when I have to double back and retrieve my laptop from the counter.
“It’ll be ready in—” she calls after me just as I slam the door on her invitation before spending several solid, successful hours behind my keyboard with Larissa safely outside of my head.
Snapping the door open after completing my task list, I stalk back to the kitchen. The penthouse remains quiet as I go, and I can’t help but begrudge the relief that follows every unobstructed step.
A complication to the place I’m in mentally at this point in my mission, and a possible major kink in my long game.
Closing the fridge and twisting the top off a water, I spot the small feast she left for me on the counter, the setup surreal.
Plated much like a Michelin chef would, her menu consists of antipasti and fish.
Fish that I know isn’t available at just any corner market, despite the variety of local DC fare.
Two kinds of pasta rest in bowls next to it—one bloodred and meaty, with fresh spice sprinkled atop, the other light.
Her homemade bread lies in piles next to it, along with a little liquid dessert—Limoncello.
She went all fucking out. Spent hours on this. Most likely, most of her day.
The sight of the carefully and meticulously prepared spread evokes a memory of one of my brief sabbaticals in Italy.
To one night in particular, where I spent hours people-watching.
Eating a feast prepared by perfect strangers as they pored over me, bringing dish after dish until I had to start refusing them.
Though I was alone, I felt not a tinge of that emotion.
Each bite bringing me a sort of warmth and comfort I hadn’t realized I desperately craved.
Lost in that memory, I stare at the food I’m literally fucking dying to devour and briefly wonder what a stroll through those olive trees in Barga would be like. Just after, what Larissa looked like amongst them.
She’s too goddamn beautiful not to fantasize about. Created in her skin as she is, but cultivated to intrigue, captivate, and lure. Which is precisely why she was sent to me.
From an enemy’s perspective, I’m average-looking enough for it to be believed I’ve had no women of her caliber in my bed.
In thinking that, it’s safe to assume I could fall victim to such a spell.
Because with me lies the key to unlocking my organization.
If executed just right, I’m the way and means to effectively hurt my club to the point it could be infiltrated and dismantled.
A way of getting to T, as well as the leader of the free fucking world.
If she’s lying about her agenda, then I’m Ciro’s decided middle. If she’s not lying, I’m hers.
Whether I’m Ciro’s decided middle or Larissa’s, both couldn’t be more fucking right, but they picked the wrong motherfucking lock to try and decode.
Swiping the untouched plates straight into the sink, I flick on the faucet to drown the illusion Larissa attempted to create for me tonight. Snatching a piece of the bread at the last second before it’s drenched, I pop it into my mouth.
An explosion of flavor ignites on my tongue, the taste, texture, and consistency fucking bliss. Just a mouthful alone brings me right back to that seaside café.
As I swallow, I decide to wipe what real estate Larissa’s taken up in my mind thus far. Dinner seems innocent enough, but there was motive in this.
She read me last night. She catered to that lonely man tonight. Spoon-feeding him a vision of a life she thought might speak to the need inside me. Delivering comfort for the most basic of needs.
It’s so fucking clear to me now that she’s playing to win.
Sadly for her, I never lose.
“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.”
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War