“Take your hands off me.”
His smug smirk fuelled my anger, which was much needed after the molten puddle I had been in danger of becoming.
“I think you like my hands on you,” Raphe said with a sly knowing look. His thumb caressed my jawline idly, and I watched him watch as he smoothed it lightly over my skin.
“I think you’re delusional,” I snapped angrily, agitated at the fact he may be right. May be right? I knew that he was.
Raphe pulled me closer, my hands pressed against his chest, fingers flexing against the unmistakable muscle. Once again his lips were at my ear as he spoke softly. “I think you protest too much.” His soft whisper did things to my insides that it had no right doing.
“Raphe,” I breathed. Oh God, I was that girl. That woman you read about who suddenly becomes jelly in a strong man’s hold. I was not that woman. “Let me go before I knee you in the balls.” My hard stare met his, and I swear to God, I fought the shiver as I saw the heat in his eyes. His smile was a thing of beauty, and I had to hold myself back from digging my fingers into his chest for a whole other reason.
“All you had to do was ask.” Raphe stepped back and smoothly bent down to the chair and picked up his phone. “I’ll leave my room open.”
I’d been looking at the wall, trying to avoid his stare. He saw far too much when he looked at me. I felt exposed. However, my eyes flew to his at his words. “Why?”
“You’re the new housemaid, remember.” With a low laugh, he walked out of the den.
I wish I could have walked out after him…but in reality? In reality, my pulse was racing, my breath was ragged, and my knees were goddamn jelly. I sat with a thump.
Holy shit. What the fuck had that been? My body had reacted to him on a purely carnal level, and heaven help me, I wasn’t sure if I didn’t want more.
I slept late the next morning. Raphe didn’t return yesterday evening. By the time I came out of the den after he had left me there, groceries had been delivered, and he had left them on the counter for me to put away. I had genuinely fought the urge to throw them out, but I couldn’t bring myself to waste food, no matter how much I wanted to keep the tomatoes on the counter to launch at him the next time he walked through the door. Ugh, I had to stop wanting to throw things at him.
My mutterings about his audacity and superior attitude lasted for a good hour, and then because he had put the idea in my head, I had started to clean. I actually enjoyed cleaning, and I scrubbed the kitchen, living area and tidied the den while I ran the laundry through the machine. My laundry. I hadn’t dared go into his room, which he had left open for me.
When I went to bed, I had lingered at his door, debating if I wanted to walk into his room. But he didn’t live here really, did he? This was Hoodie’s place, so the bedroom should just be another guest room. Even as my head was being reasonable, my feet remained outside his room. Going inside when he wasn’t here, it felt intrusive. Even if it was just to clean.
So when I woke this morning and the first thought of, is he home yet, was pushed aside to be followed with, maybe I should do his laundry, I was pissed off.
To hell with him. He could wash his own damn clothes.
I lay in the bed for a while longer, lying on my back with my arms loose at my sides snug under the blankets as I indulged in the comfort and once again thought of Raphe. Those shirts would be dry cleaned, so what was in the hamper? His boxers? Would Raphe wear boxers? I thought of checked boxers and giggled under my duvet. He would probably wear boxer briefs, those ones that hugged the hips and moulded to men’s thighs. Yeah, their thighs, that’s where my mind had wandered to. I snorted at myself in contempt. Hipsters on Raphe’s thighs. The thought was taboo yet inexplicably delicious.
Maybe he didn’t wear underwear? The thought popped into my head, and unbidden, I had a fully naked Raphe in my head. He never remembered to give me underwear, maybe it was because he didn’t wear any himself. My cheeks heated. Shit. I didn’t need that mental image. Biting my lip, I trailed my hand slowly up over my stomach and upwards softly, mimicking his movement of yesterday when he held me in front of him. His hand had been so close to my breast, had he known? Is that why he turned me?
Idly my hand traced over the curve of my breast. It was a sign of how long it had been since someone touched me, hell, since I had touched me, that my nipples responded so easily. My other hand rested on my hip, my fingers lightly brushing the elastic of my pj bottoms.
My breathing was uneven as I thought of yesterday, the way he held me, the way he clasped my throat. Gently. Not to hurt me, just to dominate me. My body warmed with excitement as my fingers pinched my nipple slightly. The moan was unexpected and…loud in the quiet of the room.
Sitting up quickly, I kicked the blankets off. I couldn’t lie here and give myself quick relief to the thought of Raphe. Jesus, what was wrong with me? I sat on the bed, my legs over the side, my feet planted on the floor, my heart still racing slightly. I was not away to pleasure myself to the thought of Raphe.
To hell with it, I was going into his room. I was creating an air of mystery about him in my subconscious that he did not earn and sure as hell didn’t deserve. Crossing to the door, I hesitated and decided to use the bathroom first. After taking care of my bladder and washing my hands, I eyed my toothbrush. Yeah, I needed to brush my teeth. Once my teeth were brushed, I looked at the shower. Well, I was here anyway, so I took my shower, lathering up my hair, and as I blow dried it later, I was happy it was shorter but still long. He had done me a favour, and as it fell in soft waves down my back, I noted some of it was uneven and needed to be tidied up.
Forty minutes later, I was in jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt, hovering outside Raphe’s bedroom. Emboldened now that I was dressed and presentable, I walked in and almost sighed with disappointment. White bedding, white walls, large window. The room was a carbon copy of mine. The bed was made with an almost military precision, the bathroom door was closed. I rolled the door back and marvelled at the neatness. He was obviously a serial killer. Everything was in its place, lined up, not one thing out of place. Even the towels hung at the same height and length. On impulse, I tugged one down so it hung lower. I wondered if that would make him hyperventilate, and grinned at my mischievous thought.
He had OCD, he had to. This was regimented. I crossed to the hamper and peeked inside. Black socks, black boxer briefs—knew it—pj bottoms, shirts and a pair of pants. I hesitated, and then thinking fuck it, I dipped my hand in and pulled out his dirty washing.
I was doing this once and once only, I promised myself as I headed downstairs and to the utility room. I read the labels, and leaving the pants and the shirts to the side, I started my captor’s washing. My captor. Was he? The longer he kept me here, was he holding me or protecting me?
Don’t you dare romanticise him, I warned myself sharply.
My hands were on his shirt, and with a guilty look around, I sniffed it. I was in need of mental health therapy, obviously, although it didn’t stop me from inhaling deeply. Did I know he smelled this good? Yes, yes I did.
I dropped the shirt suddenly. This was foolish. I was his hostage. This wasn’t a Johanna Lindsey novel, he wasn’t my saviour. Oh God, did I have Stockholm syndrome?
“You need to calm down,” I told myself sternly.
I turned to walk out of the utility room and came face-to-face with Hoodie. My scream pierced the silence of the penthouse.
“Fucking hell, woman, what the fuck!” Hoodie yelled as he winced. He was in a dark navy suit today, his white shirt was open at the collar, and he looked completely different from yesterday. This guy totally owned the penthouse.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I yelled back at him. My hand on my heart felt the erratic beating. “Why did you sneak up on me?”
“I made plenty of noise. It’s not my fault you were lost in sniffing Raphe’s shirt.”
I could feel myself blushing furiously as I walked past him. “He isn’t h
ere.”
“I know.”
Panic welled within me, and I turned carefully to look at him. “Then what are you here for?”
“You.”
I took a step backwards. “Why?”
He looked at me, and his eyes ran over me appraisingly. “What did you do?”
“What?”
“To get his attention, I can’t figure it out,” Hoodie told me.
“Nothing, he’s helping me,” I lied.
“Yeah, he generally doesn’t help people.” Hoodie considered me for a moment longer. “What did you do before he brought you here?”
My mind raced. I wasn’t sure how much to tell him, as I didn’t think Raphe would like this line of questioning. “Worked in a kitchen.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.
“You’re a chef?” Hoodie looked surprised.
“No, dishwasher.”
“Huh. Okay, let’s go.”
I knew my eyes were wide with shock. “What?”
“Go get shoes on.” He gestured to my feet. “I don’t have all day, Devon.”
“Who told you my name?” I asked fearfully.
“Raphe did.” He frowned as he answered me. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll go get my shoes,” I told him as I ran for the stairs. If this guy was going to let me out, I would wear whatever the hell he wanted. I berated myself for acting like a complete moron.
Pulling on my old sneakers, I grabbed a grey long-sleeved T-shirt and quickly pulled my top off, before layering it over the long-sleeved one. I rushed back downstairs again to find Hoodie waiting impatiently. “Sorry,” I murmured.
“No issue, let’s go.”
As we waited for the elevator, I kept glancing at him, wondering how fast he could run. Could I outrun him? I had no way of getting back into the penthouse. Even if I wanted to go back there. When we reached the ground floor, he walked me past the doorman, who looked confused at my presence. I didn’t blame him, I didn’t think there were many jeans and T-shirt wearing women coming out of this building.
“My car,” Hoodie told me as he held the door open. I hesitated, and his hand was vise-like on my arm. “I wouldn’t.” His voice was light, but his smile was tight.
I got in the back of the car and strained to hear what he said to the driver. Then he was in the back with me.
“You’re called?”
He looked at me, considering my question. “Aiden.”
“Hi,” I offered.
I saw his lips twitch in amusement. “Hi.”
“Does he know?” I asked quietly. I jumped at the loud laugh.
“Fuck no, he’ll go apeshit.”
My stomach plummeted. “Then why?”
“Because I’m using you as an experiment.” Aiden grinned.
“Excuse me?”
“You won’t get hurt, trust me. Actually, fuck that, don’t trust me, you don’t know me, trust Raphe.”
When the car pulled up outside the bistro, I looked at Aiden in panic. He was completely oblivious. Was he? He pulled me out of the car and into the bistro without pausing for breath, unaware I was having a panic attack beside him. He walked purposefully into the kitchen as my life flashed before my eyes. I had been tricked. What an idiot. Raphe was going to be so pissed he didn’t kill me earlier.
“Aiden?”
I looked at the blond god chef. No, I don’t want him to kill me, my mind was reeling with alarm.
“Levi, how are you?” I watched them exchange a “bro” handshake as I fought the rising bile.
“Good, and who’s this? Jemma know you’re bringing hot women into my kitchen?”
My brain was registering fragments of the conversation, I just wasn’t capable of processing it.
“Ha, no. It can be our secret.” Aiden grinned at me. “This is Devon,” he introduced me. Levi was looking at me. The gorgeous head chef who I watched for almost two years, who never saw me once, was looking straight at me, and he wasn’t disgusted by what he saw. “And she’s your new dishwasher,” Aiden declared with a wicked grin at me.
“What?” I exclaimed with a hoarse whisper.
Oh God, I was going to faint.
I walked through the terminal to the pick-up area outside with my overnight bag clutched firmly in my hand, my temper barely in check. I hated New York City, the people, the crowds, the filth, and don’t get me started on the tourists. It was a cesspit that I avoided like the plague. Malcolm would pay me double for this shit.
Speaking of Malcolm, I couldn’t see him, and as I spotted the driver I wasn’t expecting, I hesitated for a moment before crossing to him. He met my stare with a blank look of his own, and biting my tongue, I tossed my bag into the trunk without a word.
Getting in the backseat, I was ready for it to be empty. Seething in silence as we inched forward in the worst traffic imaginable, my displeasure growing by the second, I thought about Devon.
Again.
Gritting my teeth as I looked out the window, I recalled how good she felt in my arms. She was an inconvenience, a liability, nothing more. Why was I so fixated on her? I was thinking about her more and more. Her hair had been annoying her all day; I didn’t know why she didn’t see it. I did her a favour, cutting it. Plus, hair that length was memorable. Hair halfway down her back, not so much.
I bit the edge of my thumb as I thought about her blending in. Blending in to where? She sure as hell wasn’t getting out of the penthouse anytime soon. Frowning, I thought about the fact I was basically holding her there. I remembered her words of yesterday, that she was in a cage and couldn’t breathe. Is that how she felt in life? Was she on the street by choice? She didn’t strike me as the kind to shun buildings, she slept just fine in the shelter and in the penthouse. The amount of times she showered told me she enjoyed being clean. No, I was sure Devon wasn’t as free of a spirit as she liked to think.
I had feelers out as to who Devon was. The woman gave nothing away. Her body language was minimal, well, when she wasn’t flush against me, then she was an open book. My thumb pressed against my teeth as I thought about my hand around her throat, her ass pressed into me, her breathing ragged. I had to turn her before she realised she was turning me on. The way she had looked up at me, vulnerable but defiant, I had almost made a mistake.
Another rash decision with her that I couldn’t afford and I knew I had to stop letting her affect me. The fact that I was already thinking she had gotten to me troubled me.
We pulled up outside the brownstone, and I got out. The driver practically jogged to the trunk to get my bag. I picked it up and the case that was there too. I ignored him as I climbed the steps to the brownstone. The door opened at my approach, and I met the hard look of its occupant.
“Dad,” I greeted as I walked past him.
“Raphael,” he said as he closed the door behind me. I walked into his study—I knew better than to go anywhere else—and placed my baggage down. I waited until he walked around me and took up his position behind the desk.
My father was distinguished. All my life, I had thought of many, many different adjectives to describe him, but distinguished was the best one. He was also a raging dick, and I respected the fact that he didn’t give a fuck what people thought of him. His hair was slightly darker than mine, mixed with grey at the temples, but he wore it well. His eyes were the same blue, his jaw slightly squarer than mine—he hadn’t had his broken in a fight. My father didn’t fight with his hands, despite the fact he kept himself in good health. His only physical exercise was on his cross trainer from five in the morning until six. Every day. No, my dad didn’t fight with his fists, or a weapon like I did. Dear old dad fought with his mind and his quick wit.
“How are you?” I asked politely.
“You may sit,” he instructed. I did as I was told. “I am well, you?”
“No complaints,” I answered easily. Another hard stare and I braced myself for whatever was coming.
“That’s not what I hear.”
“You listening to gossip, dad?” I crossed my legs, knowing it pissed him off. When I was younger and learned that he didn’t approve, I made sure to do it every time I sat across from him. It was petty, pointless, and I wasn’t proud of myself for it, but it didn’t mean I would stop doing it.
“You understand it’s very hard not to hear what my son has been doing when I defend his friends in court.”
I looked at one of New York City’s top attorneys. My dad, the criminal defence lawyer, his hands were literally clean of organised crime business, but his heart? My father’s soul was blacker than any mafia boss. “I don’t have many friends in the tri-state area,” I quipped.
I heard the heavy sigh and leaned back. The lecture was coming. “You are a brilliant mind, Raphael, the fact you squander it on vermin saddens me.”
The fact my mind instantly went to Devon when he said vermin reminded me I had more problems in my life than my father’s disappointment that I didn’t follow in his footsteps to the courtroom.
“Angel?”
I saw my dad stamp down his irritation at my mother’s interruption. I stood and turned, stepping into my mom’s embrace.
“I do wish you wouldn’t call me that,” I murmured to her quietly.
“But you’re my angel of heaven.” She patted my cheek with a mischievous grin.
“Raphael fell from heaven, mom,” I reminded her.
“An angel’s an angel no matter where they reside.”
We both ignored my father’s scoff. “I’m sure there are legions of the faithful who would argue with you.” I kissed her cheek affectionately.
“Marian, we’re not finished,” my dad rebuked her softly. My mom rolled her eyes at me, but she left the study, and I fought my usual irritation that she didn’t stand up to my dad.
I watched her go, taking in her dark brown hair, which she had worn pinned back from her face ever since I was young. Mom was about five-five, her waist thick, and her dark brown eyes hinted at her heritage. Her Italian heritage. My mom’s Sicilian background gave my dad all the connections he ever needed when he came out of law school.
Beautifully Broken (The Denver Series Book 2) Page 13