10. Playing Pretty Woman in Somebody’s Mansion #2
I snort in the shower. If I weren’t about to run for my life, I would leave a five-star review about the floor-to-ceiling slabs of marble and brass fixtures.
Is it wrong to pretend to be somebody else if it keeps me safe and under this shower spray a little longer?
My name is Bianca and the towel I grab off the warmer is a cotton pillow.
“Y’all about to come up short with these towels,” I say, scraping the day’s film off my teeth with the toothbrush left on the counter. “And the floors are heated? Maybe I should stay the weekend.”
I cackle at my reflection.
I’m many things, but a senseless bitch ain’t one.
Steam slips out of the bathroom in large puffs when I open the door. If only I had my spennanight bag. Jeans and a tee would be more comfortable than putting on my mismatched pajamas once it’s time to leave.
Spice and citrus force their way into my lungs. My breath is a relaxed sigh at the calming notes, quieting my heartbeat for the first time today. The cologne wasn’t there before, and it doesn’t match the profile of someone who sleeps in an all-black room and skins people in his spare time.
A squeak slips at the man in a burgundy suit.
Mama Vee raised me to look every threat in the eye.
I want to, but my legs tense with my ass, making it harder to turn around and run back to the bathroom.
Shades of amber and rosewood catch fire in a gaze that sweeps over my bonnet and works its way from the towel knotted between my cleavage down to my toes.
Low light from the ceiling rakes over textured black hair and a sharp fade connecting into a trimmed beard. I draw in a ragged breath at the slow sweep of his tongue over the lower lip he pulls between his teeth.
I understand the mirror over the ceiling now. Sir Bennici is fine and no Napoleon.
The stare on this man alone will push me through a mattress. Tattoos are my weakness, and the ones painted on his exposed skin belong in somebody’s museum. Roman numerals count down the side of his neck, an appetizer to the main course.
A large rose decorates his left hand in black ink. If I had to guess, sleeves scroll up his biceps, forcing the fibers of his two-piece suit to bend.
“Come here,” he says lowly in Italian. His voice traces around my throat and squeezes.
Jesus.
The soles of my feet fog polished marble in a heated trail to the stare burning a hole through my towel.
My inhale catches as his mint breath fans across the bridge of my nose.
I yelp at the firm grip around my waist, pressing me into soft burgundy fibers.
Hard muscle is underneath, filling out the athletic physique hovering above my bonnet.
The cut of his jaw and handsome face are a smoke screen. Behind round lips and hollow cheeks is a man who breaks hearts and coochies. He’s fine as hell and likely has someone tied up in his basement right now, living out their last days.
I can’t think while this close. I damn sure can’t breathe with him in my face, looking the way he does. Looking at me like he wants to spread me wide and suck me dry.
“The deposit you requested.” He pulls a stack of crisp banknotes from his pocket.
There’s more than enough to get to the embassy and back to Baltimore. Except I’m in Sicily.
Shit.
Without my phone, I can’t look up the nearest consulate. I’m not sure there is one on the island. I could excuse myself, slip the money into the pockets I don’t have, and pretend I left a bag downstairs that’s really in Naples. I’ll find a cab, catch a flight.
In a towel? You also need an ID.
I’ll find a boat. Then I’ll go to the embassy.
Did you forget he sent people in GI Joe gear to grab you? You’re in his place, which means he probably has armed security outside. He just pulled twenty thousand euros out of his pocket like an ATM, and you think he won’t find you?
Be pessimistic, why don’t you?
Calloused fingers tip my chin. His thumb glides across my jaw in slow, measured strokes. The touch is soft, but nothing about the man in front of me suggests he’s gentle.
“Is your pussy ready for me?” His murmur rises above a whisper.
He’s putting me through the headboard—ass-first, without a doubt.
He drags his knuckles up my spine. I arch under the touch, my flesh prickling beneath the towel.
Damn.
Sir Bennici’s arousal heightens my senses.
Unspoken need.
Desire pooling in his eyes.
His length pressing into my lower belly.
Taste still remains, and today may be the day I declare I’m a senseless bitch.
A delirious one contemplating a test drive of the man who orchestrated my kidnapping.
He could be a dirty politician, a kingpin, a mobster, or a mix of all three.
I still want to ride him at full speed with no brakes. Then I’ll run for my life.
After years of self-service, drowning in work, and ghosts of lackluster hookups, I think I will sample the stamina licking at my curiosity.
It’s clear he doesn’t want to kill the Bianca he’s paying to stay for the weekend.
I’ll be long gone by the time someone realizes I’m not her.
If that means temporary safety, I’ll play the part. Just for tonight.
This is life or death. Survival mode with a dash of dick.
Sir Bennici’s low growl at my hand squeezing the immaculate print over his thigh tips my lips into a smile. He’ll have to fuck me into submission for me to call him Sir out loud.
Girl, are we really doing this?
Riding him until he falls asleep before running with the money?
Absolutely.
I tighten my grip and lift to meet the shell of his ear.
“Come and find out if my pussy is ready.”