I busy myself with organizing the items on the counter to resist the urge to peek around the curtain. Even the sound of water sluicing down her curves tantalizes me. I roll my shoulders and fill my lungs to the point of bursting, triggering the residual ache from my last surgery. Even though it’s been eight months since the surgeon cracked my sternum open and fished bullets out of me, I still catch myself favoring my chest out of instinctual fear of the pain returning.
With my senses tuned to her every move, I stiffen when she sniffles. Worried she may start toward a full-blown meltdown, which might be preferable if she were Julieta but is most certainly not now that I know she isn’t, I ask about the least personal topic I can think of.
“What does your sister do at the clinic?” I ask.
“She’s a surgeon.”
The knot in my chest loosens when her voice emerges strong and even, and with more curiosity than I care to admit, I continue my line of questioning.
“What do you do?”
A rush of water hits the bottom of the tub as she rinses her hair.
“I’m an anesthesiologist.”
The blood drains from my face. I stare at my reflection as long buried memories resurface. Fate’s a cruel bitch for bringing me such an amazing woman and then revealing she works in the one medical field I despise.
What should have been a simple procedure became a rare medical case when my first anesthesiologist botched her job and destroyed the nerves in my legs. I rarely notice the lack of feeling below my knees nowadays, since I’ve learned to adjust to the pressure in my joints instead of relying on superficial nerve endings, but as a six-year-old boy who hopped so trustingly onto the hospital bed to have his tonsils removed, it was devastating. The only reason they got me on the operating table eight months ago was because I was already clinging to life by the barest thread.
“Ermanno?”
My heart lurches as she says my name for the first time. The uncertainty in her feminine voice grabs me by the balls and twists. I want to see her lips form my name before wrapping around my cock. My mouth waters as I imagine tasting her lips for the first time. I swallow, turn toward the shower, and lean back on the counter.
“Yes, Loretta?” I ask.
“I’m done showering,” she says.
The hardness in her tone challenges my control as she silently demands I keep my distance.
“Turn off the water,” I command.
To my surprise and disappointment, she does.
I snatch a towel off the rack and slip it between the curtain and the wall, but I don’t let go when she tries to take it. She tugs a few more times before growling in frustration and just holding it.
“Dry off, then hand it back to me. Capisci?” I demand.
Her audible swallow travels down my spine and pools in my groin.
“I understand,” she confirms.
I release the towel and step back. My mind supplies me with sensual pictures as I listen to the sound of the terrycloth rubbing over her flesh. I cross my arms over my chest and wait until her dainty hand slips through the tiny crack with the towel in her fist. I take it from her and hang it back up before lifting the folded fabric off the counter and slipping it to her.
After a moment of silence, she sighs and dons the garment before voicing her frustration.
“You went into my locker but didn’t bring my clothes?”
I don’t respond. I can’t. If I move at all, I’ll reach out, yank the curtain open, and drag her into my arms. The anticipation is too much.
She slides the curtain open and glares at me.
“Is this meant to humiliate me?”
I cease breathing. Standing in my t-shirt with her hair wet and her skin flushed, she’s a wet dream in the flesh.
“Gattina, the only one who might humiliate themselves is me,” I groan.
Even as she deepens her scowl, she rubs her thighs together and pulls at the hem of my shirt.
Unable to resist, I stand and offer her my hand. When she slips her palm into mine, delight travels up my arm, but I help her out of the shower and guide her to the sink. She catalogues the products lined along the back of the counter. Her eyes flash when she notices the deodorant and lotion I took from her locker.
She scowls at me through my reflection as I stand behind her.
I allow my lips to curl in amusement, but her pallor and the lines of exhaustion around her eyes urge me to pamper her back to full fighting force. She stiffens when I lean closer to her, but I reach over her shoulder and take the brush from the counter.
When I gather her hair into my fist, she white-knuckles the edge of the counter and vibrates with tension.
“I’m not a life-sized doll. I can do my own hair,” she says.
I meet and hold her gaze in the mirror. After a few moments, she swallows and looks away. No matter how much she protests, I will take care of her.
I may not fully trust her yet or like her profession, but she’s mine.
Mine to question. Mine to protect. Mine to pamper.
Mine to do whatever I want with, and right now, what I want is to brush her hair.
Her fingers tighten on the counter, and she grows more awkward the longer I take, but I run first the brush, then my fingers, through her smooth locks, savoring the moment as bittersweet memories rise in me.
In her last few years, mia mamma’s arthritis made braiding her hair too difficult for her, so at first mio papà would do it, but then I took over a few days a week when I noticed his gnarled fingers struggled to manage the delicate process.
When I brush her hair straight back, Loretta’s eyelids dip over her gorgeous green orbs. She tries to disguise the delight flashing over her features, but it arrows straight to my cock.
I’ll have blue balls before the end of the night, but nothing will stop me from touching and teasing mia gattina.
I set the brush on the counter. Loretta exhales in relief then stiffens in surprise when I start braiding her hair. It’s been a while since I practiced, so I opt for a simple French braid down the center of her head.
I pinch the end and nudge her hip to move her so I can open the top drawer. She takes a stiff step to the side and crosses her arms over her chest as I pull a hair tie from the drawer and fasten the end of her braid.
Her eyes judge me as she glares at my reflection.
I lift two toothbrushes and a small tube of toothpaste from the drawer. After unwrapping the brushes and crowding Loretta against the counter, I reach around her and wet them in the sink. I open the toothpaste and squirt a healthy dose on both sets of bristles before offering her one and watching with amusement as she gives me a skeptical once-over. When she finally takes her toothbrush from me, I scoff and drop my hand to her hip but don’t grind my hard cock against her ass.
She sticks the bristles in her mouth and brushes with fury in every move.
I rest my chin on the top of her braid and smirk.
“Is mia gattina jealous?”
She stops mid-stroke and lifts an incredulous brow. My cock and chest brush against her as I chuckle.
I lean down so my lips hover beside her ear.
“Aren’t you upset because you’re imagining how many women I had to bring home to learn how to braid hair? Well, guess what, gattina—” I flick my tongue over her earlobe. “I can do so much more than a French braid.”
She stares at nothing for a few seconds as emotions play over her face. The blush on her cheeks deepens and interest sparks in her clear green eyes, but she scowls and thrusts her elbow into my abdomen. Her hit lands surprisingly hard considering her lack of lead up, so I humor her with a grunt and tighten my grip on her hip.
She wraps her arm around her front and continues brushing her teeth as though she said all she needed to with her outburst.
Unable to hide my amusement, I keep watching her in the mirror as I join her in scrubbing my teeth. When white froth escapes her mouth and trails down her chin, she squeaks and leans over the sink.
Her ass bumps against me. I take advantage and dig my fingertips into her hip, holding her right where I want her, and nestle my cock between her ass cheeks. Without missing a beat as I continue to brush my teeth, I treat myself with a slow thrust of my cock against her soft, warm backside. Her shirt rides up to reveal the bottom curve of her ass.
She jabs her heel into my shin and tries to duck out of the bathroom—with bubbles dripping down her chin and her toothbrush in hand—but I grab her nape and yank her against me. She grunts and lifts her toothbrush over her shoulder like it’s a knife she intends to stab into me. I catch her wrist and force her fist behind her head before transferring it to my other hand and pinning it against her nape. The position ensures her breasts flatten against my chest and the shirt rides up on her legs.
Bafflement widens her eyes, and for a moment, she seems truly lost, like she can’t believe I caught her so quickly.
I smirk and realize the anesthesiologist gave me a secret superpower. Not feeling pain below my knees comes in handy when a crafty little kitten tries to escape.
I spit my toothbrush into the sink and turn on the faucet before I say, “That wasn’t very smart, was it, gattina?”
She pushes against me with her other arm, but I pivot and press her ass against the edge of the counter before cupping my hand under the faucet and ferrying water into my mouth.
Her startled inhale as I bend her backward to spit into the sink hardens my cock to steel.
I rinse my hand and wipe her face with my wet fingers before grabbing the hand towel off the holder and dabbing her face dry. After scrubbing the water off my face, I trail the terrycloth down her throat.
“Didn’t I warn you already, gattina? Are you testing me to see how far I’ll go?”
“But I didn’t bite you,” she snarls.
My previous threat echoes in my ears. Bite me again, gattina, and see just how far I’m willing to go.
Mirth and respect bubble up in me, but the feel of her body pressed against mine and the scent of her arousal steal my thoughts.
As gentle and sweet as the scent of vanilla, her natural aroma begs for me to dive between her legs and feast for days. It would be so easy to lie her back on the counter, pin her knees to her ears, and live out my newest fantasy, but fear fills her eyes and she stops testing my hold.
“I’m sorry. I was just defending myself. You went too far first,” she says.
She’s mine. There’s no such thing as too far.
I bite back my initial retort and drop my head back, aiming my face toward the ceiling. While it would be so easy to ravage her and slake my lust, luring her in and drawing out her pleasure would be so much more satisfying.
I inhale through my nose, savoring her delicious smell, and drop my hands to either side of her on the counter before tilting my face down toward hers. She doesn’t move despite her awkward position.
“What would you have done if I hadn’t caught you just now?” I growl.
“Locked myself in the bedroom.”
Her response isn’t what I expect, but she says it so quickly and with such conviction, I know she’s telling the truth.
“Why wouldn’t you go for the front door?”
“I don’t have your car keys and definitely can’t outrun you beyond a few yards.”
“What about the kitchen for a weapon?”
“Unless you left a Glock on the counter, I’m not winning.”
I huff in both exasperation and amusement. Her honest responses intrigue me, and I long for more verbal sparring with her even as sexual frustration pulses through me.
“What would you have gained by going back into the bedroom?” I ask.
“A door between us and maybe ten seconds to convince you to leave me alone tonight.”
Her straightforward tone and the way she glares at me despite the fear lurking in her eyes increase my respect for her. She couldn’t be more different from Julieta. She’s perfect.
I curl my hands into fists and press my knuckles into the hard counter.
“And why would I do that?” I ask.
“Because the door locks both ways and there’s a camera in the room already,” she says.
I fill my lungs with her tempting scent and shake my head.
“We’re sleeping in the same room tonight,” I decree.
Her pupils shrink. She studies my face. Searches my eyes. Swallows.
“Fine,” she says.
My cock jerks. Her acceptance, no matter how reluctant, sends a thrill to the feral beast lurking within my soul.
“I wasn’t asking your permission, gattina,” I snarl.
“I know,” she quips, but by the challenge flaring in her eyes, she’ll gladly gut me the first chance she gets if I cross the line again.
I growl, step back, grab her nape, and push her in front of me. The bottom hem of the t-shirt teases the back of her thighs as I guide her down the hall and into the bedroom. When I stomp to the far side of the bed, flip the blankets down, and gesture for her to lie down, she flicks wary eyes up at me before lowering herself onto the sheets.
I flip the blankets back over her and give her a warning glare before taking her phone and the dishes to the kitchen. When I return to the room with a charger for my phone and a stack of blankets, she hasn’t moved a muscle.
I drop the blankets on the bed, lock the door, drag the dresser in front of it, and plug my phone in on my side of the bed before grabbing the top blanket from the stack. Her bright green eyes watch me warily as I fold it in half and cover only her side of the bed. I turn on the lamp on my bedside table before turning off the overhead light. Even when I settle on top of the sheets and pull a separate blanket over me, she doesn’t relax.
Ten minutes later, she remains stiff as a board beside me.
“Go to sleep, Loretta,” I command.
She sighs and rolls onto her side, facing away from me, and despite the stress of the day, she continues to challenge me by lying wide awake for over thirty minutes before relaxing her shoulders.
With my senses tuned to her every move, I know she hasn’t fallen asleep yet by her measured breathing and stiff frame, but she doesn’t feign slumber. She just lies there in silence with uncertainty and fear wafting off her.
My exhaustion tugs at my mind, but I refuse to let my guard down when mia gattina lies scheming.
She may not be her stepsister, but she may be much more dangerous. Her calculations hold no artifice. She’s brutally honest, selfless, practical, and willing to do anything for her family.
In an eerie way, her ideals align with mine.
I’ll never regret all the horrible things I’ve done to protect the Russo family, but because of what I’ve done, I never intended to take a wife. My lifestyle is too dangerous to drag a woman into.
Loretta can handle it.
For her, I’ll play the long game.
She’s mine.
