Page 33 of The Butcher's Wife

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

She snaps her hips up, and I jerk back as her hot little pussy grazes my aching cock. She gives a soft laugh. “Are you going to let me fuck someone else then? Should I take him home? Fuck him in your bed?”

I squeeze her upper arm, but instead of backing down, she grinds herself against me again. All thought flies out of my head.

“You take another man home,” I murmur in a low, deadly voice, “and I’ll kill him.”

The last sound I hear before I slam her door shut is her quiet, satisfied laughter.

9

ANNETTA

It’s onlywhen I drag myself downstairs and take my first sip of coffee that I remember last night through the dull pounding of a hangover.

I told Dom I like it when he touches me.

That if he doesn’t have me, I’d take another man to my bed—a bald-faced lie.

I set my mug on the counter, press the heels of my hands against my eyes, and groan. Who did I become last night? My face is burning so hot that it feels like my hair will ignite. And all for what, an elevator door opening?

Against the starburst of light and dark behind my eyelids, the memory of his response sends a shudder through me.

I dig through my hazy memories for the sensation of Dom’s hard cock against me. He felt sobig, like I knew he’d be. Big, and barely holding back.

I moan at the memory, secure in the knowledge that I’m alone in the house.

So much for fading into the background.

I drink deeply from my coffee, letting the almost-too-hotliquid scald my throat and warm my insides. Outside, thick grey clouds sleepily weave through the high-rises.

At least I know now he wants me. I can work with that.

A couple of hours later,I add the finishing touches to my snack trays. Unlike whatever’s going on with Dom and me,thismakes sense.

I have one tray of cut veggies for Valeria if she’s on a diet, and another stuffed with crackers, meats, and cheeses, in case she’s not. After I found the thermostat and cranked the heat up from Dom’s original arctic settings to a toasty seventy degrees, I’m dressed in a casual, but not-too-casual, off-the-shoulder sweater, and leggings. No wine tonight—the thought makes me nauseous—but I have coffee brewing and tea ready.

Dom doesn’t have a TV, which was probably the most unexpected thing about him, but I did find some Bluetooth speakers embedded in the ceilings to connect my phone to, and piped in classical study music.

My skin crawls when the elevator door pings—I’m learning to hate that sound—but I relax when Valeria steps inside, wearing a thick jacket with the sleeves rolled up, black baggy jeans, and sneakers. She hefts a thick binder and a stack of books to one arm when I step forward to hug her, but as I lean forward, she shifts and pokes me in the eye with the edge of her binder.

“Sorry!” she blurts out.

“No, it’s okay.” I rub my eye and wince.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t already hungover, but I don’t mention that part.

She grimaces. “I’m not great at hugs.”

“Maybe we can go for a high-five next time,” I say, laughing.

She gives me a tiny, grateful smile as I lead her into the kitchen.

“What do you have so far?” I pull out a couple of plates, and when I turn, her expression has turned businesslike.

She nods and spreads her binder and books across the counter. “Let’s start with the theme.”

Several cups of tea later, I have the distinct impression that her dad’s set her up to fail. After he fired his event planner for high prices, he threw everything at his daughter and told her tofigure it outand do it cheap. The only expense he’s budgeted for is renting out a huge yacht on the pier and a catering company he already picked out—a favor to a friend, I guess. From what I can tell, Valeria’s never planned a party and has no contacts outside of the family. Because she’s going to school and working as a bartender—and now as my delivery person—it’s almost impossible for her to find the time for this.