Chapter 4
Royal
“That was amazing,” Leah sighs. She’s curled in the chair.
My own cock is pressed against my slacks, but I force myself to rise and fetch a warm washcloth from the closest bathroom.
I return, and press it against her slick and stimulated pussy, cleaning and soothing all at the same time.
I have plans for her pussy, and I want to keep it in good working order.
That’s how I see the world. Machines that need to be fixed. Pipes and joints and screws that should be fitted together so things can run smoothly.
From the first moment I saw Leah, I knew she could benefit from my care. She’s poor, overworked, tired. No hope, and no way out. I can fix all that.
And she will fix me. She is the last piece I need to be complete.
“Tell me about yourself,” I order as I clean her.
She blinks at me, her long black lashes framing innocent eyes. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“Why?”
I stroke her cheek. Is it too early to tell her why? This house is now her home. My bed is the only one she'll sleep in. For the rest of her life, she'll be beside me.
Maybe it's too soon to tell her all this.
“Because I want to know,” I say. She’ll need to get used to my orders sooner rather than later. She’s already most of the way there. “But if you're tired of talking, there are other things we can do. More I can show you.”
Her eyes drop to the bulge in my pants. She gulps then licks her lips, and I'm tempted to take her again. To teach her all the things I want her to know. All the pleasure she's yet to explore.
“No,” she says slowly, reluctantly. “I'll tell you everything.”
“Good.” I scoop her up and sit back down in the chair with her in my lap. Her lips part but she doesn’t protest. There’s a cashmere blanket beside the chair. I shake that out and tuck it around her. She looks incredible, her dark skin glowing in the shadows, her curves framed in soft wool.
I wait a beat, in case she finds her voice. But I can only hold back so long before I tell her, “You’re so beautiful.”
She blinks at me. The firelight gleams in her dark curls.
“Um, thank you.” She ducks her head.
She’s uncomfortable with compliments. Something for me to work on.
“I guess I should tell you… I have no family. Well, besides the Rossis.”
She bites her lip and I stroke her knee, running a finger over the sliver of skin poking out of the blanket to encourage her to continue. “The couple who owns the Panetteria?” I ask.
“Yes. They look after me in their own way.”
“Continue.”
“My foster family said I could have a job. I was one of several children they took in. It was loud and crowded, and so I got out of the house as much as possible.” She hesitates and then says in a rush, as if she wants to get it out quickly, “My father died in an accident when I was little, my mom died of cancer when I turned fifteen.”
“I'm sorry, principessa.” I run a hand over her silky curls. “You've suffered.”
“Not that much.” She’s biting her lip again. I touch her bottom lip the way I did in the kitchen, admiring its smoothness and the way the brown fades to blush pink and back again. She has a little gap between her front teeth. It’s absolutely adorable.
“I've had a good life. The Rossis are very kind. They even wanted to take me in, let me live with them once. Only…”
“What is it, pet?”
She squirms in my lap. “Mrs. Rossi is not well, and it's a lot to take care of her. They thought it would be better if I stayed in foster care and stayed in school.”
“Is that what you wanted?”
“I want Mrs. Rossi to get better.”
Hmm. This is something I might be able to help with. “Do you know her diagnosis?” I make a note to call the doctor later, to confer.
Now there’s a little line between her brows. I’d smooth it out like I did her bottom lip, but I don’t want to draw attention to her worry. Instead, I wait quietly. It’s ecstasy and agony, having her weight in my lap in this quiet, dark room. The firelight plays over her perfect features.
Finally, she says, “She has rheumatoid arthritis. It progressed really fast. When she turned forty-two, she could barely move. She told Mr. Rossi to divorce her but he wouldn't do it.” She blows out a breath. “Why am I telling you all of this?”
“Because I asked you. And you wanted to.”
She looks around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “You ripped off all my clothes.”
I come to my feet, hefting her in my arms. She’s all silky brown skin and hair and curves.
The perfect armful. “Come.” I stride out of the library and up the stairs to my bedroom.
I want her to be comfortable, and that means keeping ahead of her nervousness.
It’s time to show her around her new home.
Leah
Royal carries me up a grand staircase. I’m wearing a blanket and a bralette and nothing else. He ripped up the rest of what I was wearing. I’m going to have to deal with that at some point. Later.
I’m still a little floaty. Orgasm endorphins.
Royal climbs the stairs, and we pass a crystal and gold chandelier that’s big as a car. “Is it just you who lives here?”
“The staff are off for the day.” He carries me down a long hall decorated with gilt-framed paintings that look like they belong in an art museum.
When we reach the end, he steps through double doors into a dark bedroom suite that’s five times the size of my tiny apartment.
“Do you want to wash up? I can draw you a bath.” He sets me down but stays close, which is good because I’m unsteady on my feet.
“Or you can just let me go home. If I can charge my phone, I can call a ride.”
Royal’s eyes narrow. He heads to the window and twitches aside the thick, velvet curtain. The air beyond the glass is a wall of bluish white.
“We’re snowed in. My driver is off for the rest of the day, but we should get a plow soon.”
“Snowed in?”
“Mmmhmmm.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You planned this.”
His cheek curves. “You can teach me how to make strazzate.”
He lets the curtain fall and his form is draped in darkness once again.
“Here.” He takes a limp garment and holds it up. It’s a brocade dressing gown, Royal-sized. “You can have a bath later.”
Royal already cleaned me up, but I take a moment to myself just so I can explore the massive black marble bathroom. There’s a huge steam shower that could hold an orgy. A bathtub made for three—or one long-legged mafioso and a curvy girl like me.
I come out wrapped in his robe, wading through the hem pooling at my feet. I’ve knotted the sash around my waist, and the front falls into a deep V that showcases my cleavage.
Royal freezes at the sight of me, and it takes the edge off my nervousness. I have curves for days, and he seems mesmerized by them.
He beckons and when I come to stand in front of him, he kneels and slides my feet into slippers. Unlike the dressing gown, they’re the perfect size for my small feet. Probably from another overnight guest. Royal probably has a different woman in his bed every night.
I’m not going to think too hard about that.
There’s a side table against the wall full of framed photos. On the end is one of Royal and a stunning, dark-eyed woman. She’s tall and thin with olive skin and sleek brown hair. She and Royal are arm in arm, her in a ball gown, him in a tux. A matching set.
My heart sinks. That’s who Royal should be with. Someone beautiful and glamorous, like him.
I put my hand on my soft belly, feeling a little sick.
Royal sees the move and misinterprets it. “Are you hungry?”
“A little.”
His dark eyes gleam as he draws me close. “I have a craving,” he murmurs in my ear, like it’s a secret. “For un biscotto.” A cookie.
I can do cookies. I take a deep breath. “Then let’s go to the kitchen.”
Once we’re in the kitchen, my instincts take over. Royal may be king of his territory and castle, but here, I’m in charge.
“I need flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, eggs, butter or oil.” I list off items while Royal stands there with an amused expression on his face. He directs me to the pantry and fetches the items I point to. “Do you have a sifter?”
“I have no idea.” He watches patiently as I rummage around the cavernous cabinets in his kitchen.
Turns out he has everything I need, from a sifter to two entire sets of Le Creuset cookware, one in Cerise, one in Chambray.
Seven types of cocoa, and three types of almonds—raw, blanched, and in the shell.
I even find a mini blow torch for caramelizing the tops of creme br?lee, along with a double set of custard ramekins.
I file this info away for later baking sessions in Royal’s house.
Which is ridiculous. There will be no later.
This is just some crazy one-night stand.
Common for a guy as rich and hot as Royal.
After he gets his fill of me, I’ll be right back to my little life. I only wish his wasn’t so glamorous in comparison to mine. It’ll be hard to go back to my usual shabby surroundings, even if that’s where I belong.
“Where’s my coat?” I ask briskly. Royal must have put it away while I was drooling over the complete set of All-Clad pots and pans. He disappears into a room off the kitchen, and returns with my thin coat.
“Why do you need this?” he asks. His voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it. “Are you cold?”
“No.” I dig in my pocket and find the torn scrap of paper I tucked there what feels like a lifetime ago. “I’m making this.” I lay the recipe flat on the marble island. “I need Strega.”
Royal finds a bottle in a liquor cabinet. When he sets it down, there’s a look on his face that’s close to triumph. He’s brought two shot glasses and he fills one to the brim.
He sips a little off the top before putting it to my lips. “Taste.” The digestive burns down my throat, leaving an herbal taste in my mouth and a glowing warmth in my stomach.
I sputter a little but find the breath to say, “Good.”