Chapter 8 #2
If this is what feeding feels like with Rafaelle Salvatore… what the hell will it feel like when he finally decides to devour me?
Rafaelle
It’s close to four in the morning when I hear it.
The soft rumble of her stomach in the dark. The candy she had before was nowhere near enough, but I gave her rope to hang herself.
Now she shifts in the bed, probably hoping I didn’t catch it.
But I do. Of course I do.
My senses are like razors, and hers – hers are starting to hum on the same frequency. I turn from the window, where I’ve been smoking the end of a Cuban I shouldn’t be wasting on a night like this, and toss it into the glass tray.
‘You hungry for proper food now, picciridda?’ My voice cuts through the silence, low and rough.
She doesn’t answer, but I see the way she stiffens. Pride, always that spine of steel.
I pad into the small kitchen.
The place is spartan with concrete floors, exposed beams and heavy shadows, but I pay discreet people to make sure the fridge is stocked with things I like.
I slice more crusty bread, layer cold prosciutto, mozzarella, a smear of truffle mustard.
Add a few sun-dried tomatoes for flair. Not because she deserves it.
Because I want her mouth wet again. Want to watch her chew and know I did that.
Maybe I want her to wonder who taught me how to make the best fucking sandwich in the world.
Mama.
I clench my jaw and push her from my mind. I need my every guard sharp, and I already lost control in the most sublime way tonight.
Maybe time to give testing saints a rest.
By the time I return, her eyes track me with that guarded expression. She hates that she’s beginning to trust me with these things – food, warmth, attention. And I hate how much I like watching her lower her guard.
I sit beside her, pat her inner thigh through the sheets like I have every right to, and hold up the sandwich.
‘No biting, capisci?’
She glares but her eyes drop to the sumptuous layers of bread, cheese and meat. I tear off a bite and bring it to her lips. ‘Eat. Before I decide you’re more fun gagged.’
She glares at me with her beautiful eyes, but her lips part. She takes the offering without molesting me.
‘Good girl,’ I croon.
Faint colour stains her cheeks.
She eats. Chews slowly, jaw tight like she resents every flavour I’ve curated for her. I smirk and feed her another piece. And another.
My dick’s hard again. It never really went down.
‘I should be sleeping,’ I mutter, licking olive oil off my fingers. ‘But it’s hard when I’ve got this tight, slippery virgin tied up in my bed, being so damn well-behaved.’
She swallows, audibly. Very un-ladylike. Adorable colour flows up from her neck until her face is a delicate pink. ‘That’s a you problem,’ she snaps. ‘And which particular hallucination told you I was a virgin?’
I give her a lazy smile. ‘That cute as fuck blush devouring your face right now? The fact that you were much too curious before when you watched me get off. You should’ve seen your face, tigra.
Hunger and wonder. A fuck-hot combination.
Fuck, I could jerk off again just thinking about it.
Or maybe we should make it mutual? You want a hand job too, cara mia, so we can both sleep like babies? ’
‘Dream on,’ she hisses.
‘I do,’ I murmur, lifting the glass of water to her lips. ‘And they’re always filthy.’
She gulps down a mouthful through the straw. Another.
And then she freezes.
I smirk. ‘Oops, too late, baby.’
‘You’re joking,’ she says flatly, nostrils flaring. ‘You drugged it?’
My lips twitch. ‘Just a little insurance.’
Her jaw tightens. I tense and wait for the flare of panic, the pleading. Maybe even a frantic finger down her throat to induce retching. Nothing comes, and fucking hell, my dick jumps and fills and begs me for a taste of forbidden pussy. Just the tip, baby.
‘What the hell did you use?’ she demands.
‘Nothing terminal,’ I murmur. ‘Something I get from a chemist in Palermo who moonlights for rescued trafficked victims and trauma clinics. You’ll sleep like a corpse but wake up fine. No hangover. No nausea. Maybe a wet dream if you’re lucky.’
She glares at me, eyes glassy already. ‘You fucking asshole. You think I wouldn’t notice the bitter edge? The density shift?’
‘You noticed,’ I say, smiling faintly. ‘And yet…’
Her hand trembles slightly within the cuffs as she watches me set the glass on the nightstand. ‘I didn’t drink enough,’ she murmurs. And I think it’s more in hope than confirmation.
And I know when that hope dies.
I watch her fight it. With the tilt of her chin, the effort to keep her spine straight while her lashes start to flutter.
‘You son of a bitch,’ she mutters, her words already slurring.
‘Careful, picciridda. You’ll wound my delicate pride.’
Her head lolls a little. She forces her eyes to meet mine. ‘I hate you.’
I lean down, brushing a kiss to her temple.
I remember what this woman, her family, did to mine. To the one precious person who meant the world. Who didn’t deserve it. And I welcome the flood of fury.
I can feel all sorts of chemical reactions for this woman who proudly lauds the Mancinelli blood flowing in her veins, but fuck if I’m going to let that blind me to my ultimate goal.
‘Right back at you, tigra.’
She exhales sharply, and then she’s out.
Just like that.
By the time her lashes settle on her cheeks and her mouth goes soft, I brush a strand of hair off her face, draw a blanket over her and whisper, ‘Sleep tight, picciridda. Tomorrow we start playing dirty.’