Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
RENZO
“Know what your problem is?”
Fork raised, I’m midbite when she hits me with her question, as if she’s laying a trap, as if her kiss earlier wasn’t enough to drive thoughts of escape away.
I’m not going anywhere. Despite how it’s taken the good part of an hour for her to stop tossing poison darts my way.
Fina doesn’t understand the power of delayed gratification—not yet. Once I hose down, rinse off today’s sweat and grime, and then bury my face between her thighs, she’ll thank me for it.
Despite her displeasure, she’s still here, “fulfilling her obligations”—which is what she so bitingly told me earlier—but mellowing as the light fades.
“My problem?” I force a laugh. “Pick one.”
“You’re too smart.”
“If I were so fucking smart, would I be trapped inside a barn and pissing in a bucket all day?”
The key for my shackles is now inside my pocket, where I placed it after it fell into the hay while we were lip-locked. She’s yet to discover it’s lost. So goodbye bucket; I can escape at any time I want.
I continue eating, giving nothing away.
She continues prying. “No one’s told you before?”
“Too many times I lost count.”
She looks hopeful, the earlier spark in her eyes returning.
But all this psychobabble and digging deep into my bullshit is uncomfortable, especially coming from a woman who’s been riding my tail for years.
“Smart is usually followed by ass.” And then, in true smart-ass fashion, I gesture to her half-empty plate and repeat her warning from earlier. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”
She takes a bite of gnocchi smothered in a lemon butter sauce and closes her eyes as she chews, relishing the pasta-dumpling dish like it’s a religious experience.
I’m instantly hard, the sight of her beautiful, reverent expression igniting something feral in me. I want to be the one who places it there, time and time again while I worship her body like the devil I am.
“You told me as much on the ride to Vegas,” she says between chews. “How a brain like yours doesn’t handle boredom well. So, I … um … looked into it.”
Of course she did.
I pretend to be disturbed. “Fucking obsessed, aren’t you?”
Yet calling her out this time hits different. I fucking love the balls on her.
She shrugs her shoulders, blowing off my accusation. Too caught up in the deep dive into my brain.
I wonder if I should warn her?
“People like you crave stimulation. You need to feel things. Test limits. Push boundaries. That’s what gets you off.”
I smirk. “Know what really gets me off …”
Jesus. I’ve avoided this psychobabble for years. I’m about physicalities. Filthy sex and bruised knuckles. A thick dick, a pair of cuffs, and the right woman on her knees. Deep internal reflection never crosses my mind. And when pressed, I typically deflect by doing something outrageous.
Which is why I’m humoring her and not shutting this shit down. Waiting for the perfect moment to act.
Bad decision, because she hacks through my bullshit with a goddamn machete. “Your father understands this.”
Fuck, she’s perceptive.
“My father?” I demand, irritated. She best be careful peeling back this onion because, surprise, surprise, what’s on the inside also stinks.
“Why else would he allow you such freedom? Cover for your fights, the women, kink club escapades, run-ins with cops, pissed-off boyfriends …” Her fingers roll lazily through the air like she’s listing steps in a recipe.
Part chef. Part fucking stalker. “He turned a blind eye to substance abuse, too …”
Part boxer, because her jab is flawless. In my head, I finish the thought for her.
Until he couldn’t.
I drag a hand down my face, annoyance sparking hard and fast. She recites my history like it’s common knowledge, like she’s memorized every fuckup and filed it away for moments like this. What pisses me off even more is how accurate she is with her sad portrayal of me.
“The condition is called dysrationalia,” she plows on, relentless and unmerciful. “People doing irrational things despite having a high intellect. Normal bores people like you, so you take things to extremes to challenge yourself.”
“Jesus Christ …”
“Rules mean nothing to someone like you,” she declares as my discomfort grows. “Not when you think you’re smarter than everyone else. My father would’ve crushed your spirit. Forced the Life down your throat and watched you choke on it. Yours? He waited. Gave you time to figure out the truth.”
Every syllable digs under my ribs, wedges itself where I can’t yank it out. I turn away, jaw clenched, trying to steady the rising panic. She’s not wrong, and that makes it worse.
I spent years pushing back, sure, but things only spiraled after Rome. That’s when the rebellion turned toxic, driven by this desperate urge to become exactly what everyone already believed I was.
A good time.
Unreliable.
Weak.
The realization slams into me. My lips part, then press into a tight line. I shake my head, unsettled by the weight of it. Fuck. I never saw it this clearly until now.
Our eyes lock. Her soft smile says everything—she knows she hit the motherfucking bullseye.
Her voice dips low, velvet and lethal.
“You don’t follow the rules. You rewrite them. And I kind of hate you for it.”
Fuck me.
I shift on the hay bale and look away.
“You’re embarrassed?”
How many poor bastards cursed with dysrationalia squirm at the thought of deep, soul-baring talks about intellect?
“I can’t believe it. You are.” She jumps to her feet, almost dropping her takeout plate. “The same man who wiggled your bare ass at me.”
Finally, a topic I can get behind. “Same man who made an F into the shower tile with my come.”
Her eyes pop out of her head.
Mission accomplished.
“You … did?”
The tension in my body eases. “Practice,” I simply say, thankful the little perv relishes my bullshit the same way she salivated over the gnocchi.
Her voice fucking quivers. “Practice for what?”
“For when I have you naked and tied to my bedpost and am decorating your tits and stomach with an R instead.”
“Oh …”
Bullseye for Renzo.
Her chest rises fast, and she doesn’t say a word, but the way she squeezes her thighs tells me everything.
She’s picturing it.
I spear gnocchi on my fork and finish the last few bites.
“I don’t think so.” She says it with such enthusiasm my brows rise as I look at her. “You’re the one restrained, babe.”
Holy fuck. Did she just babe me?
She ignores me, covering her dinner then placing the container inside the tote, every movement deliberate and sharp.
Stunned, I have to ask. “Why not?”
She stiffens, and then the verbal machete returns, sharper and ready to draw blood. “I made an agreement to help you, and that’s what I’m doing. Otherwise, we’re two strangers who happen to have a past …”
“My dick was covered with your virgin blood—”
“Who don’t even know each other—”
“You’ve been stalking me for years—”
“… and who, under normal circumstances, would never be attracted to each other—”
“Fuck normal.”
The way she spits out her words, like she’s trying to cleanse herself of me. And that won’t happen. Not now. Not ever.
I stand, and the dinner container flies off my lap. She tries to jump out of reach, but she’s close enough I can count the freckles on her shoulder. I wrap an arm around her waist and haul her into me. “Babe,” I say, low and dangerous.
She squirms, trying to break free. “Don’t babe me, asshole.”
Oh, she wants raw? Let’s go there.
“Now that we ate, let’s fuck.”
Her entire body goes slack.
“Here’s how it’ll play out. I’m releasing you and stripping. You’re taking the hose over there and hosing me down. Then, you’re riding my face and, when I say you can, my dick. Capisci?”
She’s quiet for so long, I begin wondering if I imagined her earlier enthusiasm and the anger that followed when she assumed I was rejecting her.
Fina. Fina. Fina. You’ve so much to learn.
“This is casual sex,” she states. “Don’t be getting feelings for me.”
I laugh. “Getting feelings for you?” Already have them, babe.
She jerks free of my embrace. “Asshole.”
I’m not done stripping and still considering her reaction when a cold stream of water knocks me backward. I sputter, then glare at her.
Her smile is like a gift, and it lights up the barn.
I peel off my soaked sweatpants and boxers, drape them so the fabric swallows the chains, then stretch out with my arms and legs wide. “Do your worst.”
And she does, letting me have it. Utterly delighted by making my dick and balls shrivel beneath the chilly blast. I count the cackles, ready to double the amount in moans.
She wants the full Renzo effect?
Then let’s fucking go.
FINA
I drop the hose, laughing so hard I’m crying.
Renzo just stands there—arms spread, legs apart, water dripping from his hair, his chin, his nipples … and his maddeningly perfect dick.
Soaked to the bone and still sexier than sin.
Why not take what I want? He certainly plans to; his laughter when I said the sex would be casual was proof enough. That laugh stung, but I brushed it off. What did I expect, another marriage proposal?
Been there. Done that.
Epic fail.
“You gonna stand there staring at me?” he asks, one brow lifting. “Or get your ass over here?”
Nerves flutter in my belly, but I cross the space between us. He towers over me—he always has—but something about the way he watches me now makes my knees weak.
“Take off your dress.”
My fingers tremble slightly as I reach the buttons. One by one, I undo them, feeling the heat of his gaze trace every inch of skin I reveal.
“Let me,” he says, rough and commanding, stepping in and brushing my hands aside. He peels the dress off my shoulders, but instead of letting it fall, he lifts it like a sheet caught in a sudden breeze, then spreads it deliberately over the driest patch beneath us.
He wastes no time on my bra, stripping it away before settling himself on the expensive fabric, gloriously naked, arms propped behind his head, every inch of him daring me to look.