Page 19 of His Cruel Exception

Antonio sets his cutlery down against the plate with a clink and dabs the corner of his mouth with his napkin. His white shirt is open at the throat, revealing a small stretch of skin above his collarbone, and his sleeves have been folded to just below his elbows, leaving his tattooed forearms exposed enough to be distracting.

Antonio rises from his chair and gestures for me to follow. When we get to the living room, I pick up my backpack sitting where I left it on the couch.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

I turn toward him, confused by the question. “Going home.”

“I didn’t say you could leave.”

I blink at him. “You didn’t say what this arrangement contains either.” The words escape before I can stop them.

He studies me for a moment, and I cannot tell if I have annoyed him. “Go to your room,” he says. “Shower and change into anything in the closet.”

Before I can point out that I don't live here, Antonio turns and walks away, disappearing down the corridor. I remain where I am for several seconds with my backpack still clutched in one hand. Eventually, I decide that by your room he must mean the bedroom where I woke up after the hunt. The fact that he apparently considers it mine now is something I choose not to examine yet.

I find my way back down the corridor and into the bedroom, then drop my backpack onto the bed before pulling my phone from my pocket and sending Logan a text. I then step into the bathroom and take a hot shower, the steam loosening some of the tension in my shoulders.

By the time I dry off and step into the walk-in closet, my hair is still damp at the temples, and I stop just inside the doorway when I see what’s in front of me. The rails are lined with winter clothes in dark, expensive-looking fabrics, with tailored wool coats hanging beside cashmere sweaters, neatly pressed trousers arranged by color, and shelves stacked with scarves, gloves, and folded knits in shades of charcoal, cream, navy, forest green, and black. There are leather boots polished to a shine, rows of shirts that probably cost more than my monthly grocery bill, and enough heavy jackets to suggest Antonio prepares for winter the way other people prepare for war.

I settle on a pair of beige corduroy trousers and a blue sweater, and once I am dressed, I make my way back to the living room. Antonio is already there, and he has changed as well. He is now wearing dark jeans that fit him a little too well, black boots, and a fitted charcoal sweater beneath a black leather jacket.

He looks absurdly attractive.

The dark colors of his outfit sharpen the green of his eyes and the severity of his features, the leather sitting across his shoulders and making it impossible not to imagine what those broad hands would feel like sliding beneath the hem of my sweater.

I tell myself not to think that, which only guarantees that I think it harder.

He lifts his chin slightly. “Come.”

It is a command, not an invitation, and I hate how immediately my body responds to it, my feet carrying me toward him. At the entryway, Antonio picks up a coat that’s exactly my size and hands it to me.I take it from him and wear it without comment. When we reach the elevator, he places one hand against the center of my back and guides me inside, his palm resting between my shoulder blades only for the few seconds it takes to move me across the threshold, but the warmth of it remains after he removes his hand, sinking through the wool of my coat and making me very aware of the precise place where he touched me.

Antonio stands beside me in the elevator looking relaxed, and unaffected by the fact that he has just commandeered my evening, while I watch the illuminated numbers decrease and consider whether throwing myself through the emergency hatch would be a proportionate response.

You don’t know it yet, but you’re mine, little stripper.

The memory of his voice slides through my mind, heat rising into my face all over again. I am not that naive to pretend I don’t understand what he meant, or at least what it sounded like he meant. But iIf I accept his money without doing any tutoring, then logically it starts to look very much like he is paying me for something else, and no matter how many ways I turn that thought over in my mind, they all seem to lead to the same deeply embarrassing conclusion.

Sex.

It’s not as if Antonio is paying me out of pure generosity, and despite whatever odd interest he seems to have developed in me, he is not exactly the type to hand over large sums of money because he simply enjoys someone’s company. More importantly, he is not a lonely man starved for companionship since he has his cousins.

“Stop thinking so loud,” he drawls just as the elevator doors slide open.

Davide is waiting beside the black SUV, but Antonio walks past him without slowing, and it takes me a second to realize we are not heading for the car at all. There is a motorcycle parked several spaces away. It is black and sleek, almost looking predatory.

Antonio’s face remains blank as he reaches it. He lifts a helmet from the seat, then turns toward me.Before I can ask what he is doing, he removes my glasses and hands them to Davide, then places the helmet over my head and reaches beneath my chin to check the fastening. His knuckles brush the skin of my throat, and I go completely still while he works. He slides two fingers beneath the strap, tightens it, then checks it again before letting his hand fall.

It takes more effort than it should not to shiver.

“I need my glasses to see,” I feel obliged to point out.

Antonio says nothing.

Without them, his face is mostly a blur of pale skin, dark hair, and black clothing blending under the lights, but his nearness compensates for the lost detail. I watch through the visor as he puts on his own helmet and climbs onto the motorcycle. The fabric of his jacket pulls slightly as he reaches for the handlebars. He looks over one shoulder.

“Get on.”

I look at the narrow seat behind him and stay exactly where I am.