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“Anytime,” I snicker before I go back to ransacking the drawers in The Spire’s massive kitchen.
“What the fuck are you doing, anyway?”
Well, Kirill, I’m looking for knives, a meat tenderizer, shears, maybe a cheese grater, a butane torch if I’m lucky and hopefully an apple coring tool, and time is slightly of the essence.
“Just ADHD brain,” I shrug.
Krill's brow is still furrowed. “You okay?”
The seriousness of his tone stops me mid-rifle through a drawer stuffed with immersion blender attachments. I turn to smile innocently at him.
“Yeah?”
“You sure?” He frowns. “You’ve been…off this week. Distracted.”
I mean, he’s not wrong. But I can’t exactly tell him that I’ve been a zombie all week because I’m still trying to process the fact that a week ago, I got married.
In secret.
To Damiano.
Shoot me.
Damiano, who makes me want to tie a bowling ball to his neck and push him off a boat two miles out to sea, but who also makes me want to get on my knees and promise to be a good girl.
On one hand, his bossy demeanor and dickhead “my way or the highway” attitude makes me want to scream.
On the other, his bossy demeanor and dickhead “my way or the highway” attitude makes me want to…uh…scream.
Yeah.
I’ve given up trying to figure out why I want the things I want sexually. Just like I’ve given up trying to find them with hookups.
The bottom line is, despite the nightmare of the red night and the days of darkness before it, I want what I want.
To be controlled. To be tied up, immobilized and used. As much as Damiano gets under my skin like a fucking splinter, there are things about him that poke at those needs inside me in ways I really, really wish they didn’t.
It’s not even just that he’s hot. It’s the way he carries himself, like every movement has been meticulously planned before he makes it. The way one of those big, veined hands closes around a doorknob turns my brain into oatmeal.
The flex of his forearm when he rolls up his sleeves. The crisp cuffs. The expensive watches. Please. When have I ever given a fuck about watches?
The perfectly knotted ties. The dress shirts that always look like they don’t dare wrinkle for fear of disappointing him.
Damiano is never rumpled. Never frazzled or out of sorts. Everything about him is controlled, deliberate, and intensely precise.
Even when I go out of my way to be a giant a pain in the ass, he doesn’t explode. And some defective part of my brain sees all that rigid self-control and immediately starts wondering what it would feel like if it was aimed at me.
Which is some real bullshit. Some deeply, deeply inconvenient bullshit.
Now, if I could only get my libido on board and stop fantasizing about him binding my wrists behind my back, putting me on my knees, and telling me to open my mouth and take it like a good girl, that would be fucking swell.
“Just…” I shrug. “School shit.”
Kirill frowns, only half buying it. But then he’s good enough to let it go.
“Well… Just so you know, I’m always here if you need anything.”
“Huh. You know, now that you mention it, I’ve been looking everywhere for a bazooka-sized dildo with a cum tube. Any ideas?”
