I grit my teeth and cross my arms, or try to, but the chain is not long enough. I could get a good night’s sleep if I strangle him with it. Dream on, Arturo Enzino.
“I want to fall asleep on your ass, can I, tater tot?” I try to annoy him.
“Is that a no-glare or yes-glare, gum drop?” I keep going, turning on my side and propping my head on my hand to look at him. “Come on, it looks squishy and firm, I want to give it a bite, to see if I’m right about the consistency I conjured in my head.”
“Shut up unless you want my dick in your swollen hole again.”
I giggle, happy I irritated him even a teeny, tiny bit. Exhaustion is claiming me, but no matter what position I take, our bodies touch somehow. The bed is far from narrow, but Luca is huge and clearly not used to sleeping with someone. Neither am I, and I don’t like to stay on the edge of the mattress; I feel like I’m falling. The damn cuff doesn’t help the sleeping situation either. At one point, my hand grazes his side, and he jerks away, pulling on my cuffed arm and yanking me almost on top of him.
What the fuck? “A big, ruthless mobster like you ticklish?” That makes me laugh, a real, genuine one. When I finally manage to stop, I look up and find him staring at me with a frown. It feels weird not to see cold anger and disgust in his eyes.
“Fucking sleep,” he growls.
Before I find myself cuffed to the toilet, I close my eyes and start counting the sheep. I wake up a while later. It’s boiling hot, and I’m sweating. As my mind starts clearing, I quickly discover the reason. A two-hundred-and-forty-pound giant of a man planted himself on my chest. Does he think I’m a body pillow or something? I can see the top of his head on my pecs, both of his arms are curled around me, one leg hooked between mine, and his length is draped over my ankle. I’ll never forget the shape, girth, and weight of it.
Note to self: I might legit be into Luca’s dick.
The places we are touching feel blazing. I move my hand to fan my face and become aware of the fact that there’s no cuff around my wrist. I can go check on my phone. It’s been a day since I did it last, and I should move it from my bag just in case Lucadecides to invade my privacy again. But where to put it? My panties are under his dick’s reign now—my entire body is.
I try to slide my body while unhooking his arms from around me, but it only makes him tighten them more. I freeze, afraid I woke him, but his low snoring makes me breathe again. How does he do it while dozing off? And what’s with the intimate position? Is he a cuddle perv?
Maybe he’s faking it. I brush one finger over his hair and then wait. When nothing happens, I use three fingers and run them through the locks. So soft. Still nothing. I start massaging his scalp, and the only reaction I get is a contented soft moan.
I sigh, yielding to the cuddle perv. After a while, the overheated temperature of his body actually lulls me into sleep again. Just before I go under, I realize that I’ve been absent-mindedly raking my fingers through his hair this whole time.
Chapter Eight
ART
Iroll my body in the sheets until I’m unable to move. “Only available for a very short time, the Art Enzino burrito,” I announce to…nobody.
The bedroom is empty. Luca is taking a shower while I’m trying to put my thoughts in order. Something I do to calm myself when anxiety threatens to overwhelm me.
Fly was prohibited from coming to see me after our trip to the club, but Luca allowed a phone call—too short for my liking. I was also successful in moving my phone from my clutch to the bathroom; it is now residing under the toilet lid. I know, very detective-TV-show cliché, but I didn’t have much time. I really needed it to disappear, and with it Rami’s text. Which is the root of my anxiety. Mario has disappeared. Is he already here? I should’ve told Luca about Boston straight away; or maybe he already knew and telling him wouldn’t have made any difference—he would have discovered about my secret cell, though. But did he know? He just said that Mario wasn’t there. Then he fucked me into oblivion, and I completely forgot about…anything—I mean, my hole still feels loose after the sex marathon he put me through.
I need to calm down. I breathe inside his sheet burrito and sway back and forth. Breathe and sway. Sway and breathe. Giving myself a mental shake. Even if Mario is here he doesn’t know where to find me—yet. And if he does, Luca will kill him. This is good, then. It’s what I wanted. Luca can’t get rid of him if he doesn’t come out of his hiding place. Right?
Ugh. My mind still feels groggy from a long, incredibly uninterrupted sleep. It’s so unlike me. Anxiety and horny thoughts have a race inside my head as soon as I lie in bed, and it takes a long time to doze off. All the sex must have helped with my disturbed sleep pattern. I was too exhausted to wake up. Also, stroking his hair felt soothing. I remember feeling a big scar among his locks on his scalp—a continuation of the cut on his forehead. Did my brother do that? I find it too coincidental that he wants to kill Mario—whose hobby is cutting people—while sporting those knife-like scars on his face. But why didn’t Luca kill him already? Those cuts look very old and he’s a powerful mobster. What stopped him?
The ajar bedroom door is pushed open, and here comes my Nacho. All fuzzy fur, bulging eyes, and short, skinny legs. He lived in an alley near my building, and more times than I can count when I came back home, there he was, looking for food near the front door. His wiggling tail is pointing up as he checks his surroundings. Fly kept him while Luca and I were busy canoodling. One of Marco’s men brought him here this morning, with a vicious message from him about roasting Nacho on a spit. Apparently—and I quote—the horny four-legged creature molested their cat.
I think he’s a mix between a Chihuahua, a poodle, and a raunchy rabbit. Is there an ancestry DNA test for dogs? I can’t check that because I don’t have internet!
I unwrap myself and call his name. He quickly scampers my way, and the sound of his little nails on the floor makes me smile. I stretch my arms and grab his tiny body off the floor to place it on my lap. He licks at my hand, then spins a couple of times and lies down, seemingly finding the best spot between my crossed thighs.
Luca makes his way inside the room—butt naked. Holy purr! How is that thing still standing half-stiff after all the sex we had yesterday? He sends a quick look my way—always nice to be so quickly dismissed—then lowers a glare to Nacho before moving, swinging balls and dick, toward the walk-in closet door. Those globes of firm ass, I really do want to use them as a cushion.
“Seriously, what did you eat for it to be so ginormous? Potatoes and pasta? Rocks and iron?”
It annoys the fucking bejesus out of me how his side profile looks so fucking good. All sharp lines and strong angles, with his perfect fucking hair and bitable lips. Ugh.
I still don’t like the guy. He’s hot, a fucking genius in the orgasm department, I can’t get his dick off my brain—especially when he swings it at me like this. But he irritates the hell out of me, and it gives me great joy to piss him off. I have to admit, though, that he isn’t the complete asshole I thought he was. There are more layers to his wacko mind. He seems to have locked his emotions in a hard chocolate shell, or a layer cake. I need to lick the frosting off the top first, taste, and then bite down on a thick layer before reaching the dark bitter core. And then what? Exercise a purification ritual better known as an exorcism?
He has already slipped on a pair of black pants when he comes out of the closet. Still shirtless, showing that smattering of hair covering his chest that I like so much. The necklace with thesmall round pendant is still around his thick neck. A religious mobster. Figures.
I tuck my hand behind my head against the headboard and keep watching the show he is so generously giving me. Even after a shower, I can still detect the slightest hint of cigar underlying the smell of lavender, and beneath that, his musky scent. Each smell individually wouldn’t be all that great, but on Luca, it makes me want to permanently let my nose reside on a patch of his skin.
“Your horny dog is humping my pillow.” His tone is indifferent, but his eyes have already plotted a gory way to make Nacho disappear.