Page 8

Catching my bottom lip between my teeth, I nod. My breath hitches as his hands glide down my sides—rough palms skimming the curves of my hips, fingers tracing the sensitive skin of my thighs like he’s memorizing every inch.
Heat pools low in my stomach, liquid and insistent, spreading lower until I’m throbbing with it. A shiver wracks through me when he squeezes my knees, his grip just shy oftoo much, and the sigh that escapes my lips is embarrassingly wanton.
Then he pulls away.
The sudden absence of his touch is a physical ache. Cold air rushes in where his body had been, and I have to bite back a whimper.
Rocco lets out a small grunt before returning to the preparation of his meal. It’s not some difficult recipe, but he curses nonetheless through the process.
“Can’t remember the last time I had to cook for myself,” he complains as he shoves a container into a microwave. “Ren can afford a chef. Instead, he buys prepackaged meals.”
“I like those.” Curling my fingers against my lap, I squirm when his gaze flicks over. “He gets them for me.”
“You’ve never had a proper meal then.” Clicking his tongue, he turns at the beep and curses again when he burns himself.
He curses a lot.
Bringing the steaming dish in my direction, I have to point out where our silverware is. Once he’s gotten what he needs, he doesn’t move to sit down. Instead, he lingers close enough for the aroma of food to fill my lungs.
“Tell me about yourself, angel.” Sinking his fork into one of my favorite pasta dishes, he looks at it like the meal is a crime.
Angel. He already has a nickname for me. So innocent. Hardly fitting with the sorts of thoughts that have been crossing my mind as of late.
I watch, transfixed, as he lifts the bite to his mouth but doesn’t eat. Just holds it there, sauce dripping onto the platter, his eyes locked on mine. Waiting.
My knees press together to contain the licks of heat he’s causing. “What do you want to know?”
He smirks, finally taking the bite. “Everything.”
He makes it sound like I might have something interesting to say. In truth, I’m rather boring. My hobbies are lacking. I enjoy the arts. Ren usually buys me whatever I want whenever I want to try something new.
I’ve taught myself how to play the piano, but who wants to hear about that? A few of the paintings on the wall are mine. I can tell him about the books I have, but the collection is small.
“My sister is big on reading,” he mumbles more to himself, almost like an afterthought.
Like him, I want to know more. Not just about the ugly side of what he does, assuming he gets his hands dirty like Ren. I want to know about the good, too.
“What’s her name?” Nudging the cabinet door below with my heels, I watch the way his face twists.
Sensitive topic.
“Camellia.” Despite his expression, he answers.
“Pretty name.” My fingers skim his shoulder—a peace offering, a distraction. His muscles tense under my touch, heat radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“I’m… pretty boring,” I confess, tilting my head. “Most days, I have to invent ways to keep myself entertained.”
His nostrils flare, the only tell that my touch affects him. “Am I your newest target?”
“No.” I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste copper. “I lose interest fast. But you?” My thumb brushes the pulse point at his throat. “You’re nothing like the others, Rocco. Not even close.”
His fork clatters onto the platter, abandoned.
Before I can react, his hand snaps out, capturing my wrist. His grip isn’t harsh, but it’s unshakable.
Slowly, deliberately, he brings my palm to his lips. When he speaks, his breath fans across my fingers.
“Angel,” he murmurs, “if it’s entertainment you want?” His teeth scrape my pulse point—not enough to hurt, just enough to make my breath hitch. “I’ll make sure you never get bored again.”