Page 22 of The Beast Who Bought Me
I do know the name Orsini, now that I think about it. There’s always been talk about the Giuliano Enforcer being queer, but his fearsome reputation kept him safe. But that’sallI know about the name. Nothing about this father of his, who very wellmighthave been killed by mine.
Damiano said his father died long ago, as long as I’ve been alive. He’s spent twenty-one years stewing in his vengeance, butmy father is beyond any vendetta. He died soon after I turned eighteen, and it wasn’t from a bullet or a hit. It was pancreatic cancer. He was here one month and gone the next.
So now I’m his surrogate. Lucky me.
I take a long breath, force my nerves to quiet down, and observe. The way this Giuliano’s dark eyes burn with an almost religious fervor confirms it’s deeply personal for him. But there’s something else there, too. His gaze keeps dropping to my mouth, my throat, the exposed skin above the cloak’s neckline, before he catches himself and his face tightens with what looks almost like…disgust.
No.Self-disgust.
He wants me. But he doesn’twantto want me.
I can use that. Use that desire warring with the darker motives driving him. His hands clench and unclench on his thighs, and I catch him staring at my mouth again.
The plug shifts inside me as the car takes a turn, pressing against nerves I didn’t know I had, and the cage grows tighter. Every bump in the road sends dual sensations rippling through my body.
I won’t adjust my position. There’s no comfortable way to sit with an object violating me, and I refuse to give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.
He pulls out a small, flat flask from his inner pocket and holds it out to me. “Have a drink.”
“No, thank you.” The last thing I need is alcohol clouding what little judgment I have left.
He wiggles the flask in my face. “Go on.”
“I told you—” I begin.
He lunges forward and grabs my face again, thick fingers digging into my cheeks. His hand is so large it engulfs my entire jaw.
“You don’ttellme anything,” he growls. “You do what you’re told. And I’m telling you to take a drink.”
But I notice the way his thumb brushes across my bottom lip as he pulls back—strangely gentle, even lingering.
Like he wanted an excuse to touch me.
I take the flask. I even take a sip when he gives me a warning glare, trying not to choke as it blazes down my throat. And maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It sends warmth flooding through me, dulling the edges of reality. I chance a look out the window, taking in street signs and landmarks. We’re coming into Midtown East.
I need to make a plan. I can’t let him break my bodyormy mind, so that means I have to find a way into his. I want that ten million waiting for me at the end of this nightmare, and I also want to walk away with my sanity intact.
And my life, of course. According to the contract, he can’t kill me. But if this man is as powerful as I think he is, a contract with the Bratva might not stop him. So I’d better start ingratiating myself.
“Ten million dollars.” His words echo the number looping through my head as though he’s been listening in. “Is that what you think you’re worth, little prince?”
“Apparently it’s whatyouthought I was worth.”
So much for making nice.
He leans in and I catch his scent again. In different circumstances, it might even be appealing. His breathing has changed, become slightly heavier, and when his eyes dart to my mouth this time, his pupils dilate.
“I would have paid more,” he confides. “Much more.”
“Then I guess you got yourself a bargain.”
He seems to enjoy my defiance, a quick smirk appearing and then vanishing. “You really a virgin?”
“Virginity is a social construct.”
He laughs. “Oh, sure. And I’m looking forward to deconstructing it for you. I’m just wondering how much was for show and how much is real. You’ve never fucked?”
He’s so crass it makes my teeth ache. And despite the fact that virginityisa social construct, that it’s meaningless, that I’ve never beenfuckedas he so crudely puts it…
