Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 66590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
It was said you could tell a lot about a person from their space, and I knew nothing about Giovanni Guerra other than his fearsome reputation.
Uplighting flickered to life along the floor when I strolled into the living room. A corner sofa sat in front of a fire flickering behind a pane of glass, and a crystal chandelier reflected little spots of light through the darkness like glitter. The entire apartment was beautiful, but much like my parents’ house, it felt unlived in, all for show. It told me nothing other than the fact that he probably wasn’t here a lot.
I moved to the massive windows and pressed my palm against the cool glass, taking in the city that stretched beyond me like a mirage I couldn’t quite touch. From here, New York was a sea of stars dancing in a black ocean. I’d always loved the vastness of Lake Michigan, the way it stretched to the horizon endlessly. I loved the sandy shores and the woods that always smelled of damp earth and pine, where I could immerse myself so entirely that I could almost pretend not a soul existed in the world except me. I missed it, but I was also mesmerized by the chaotic nature of this place.
The high-pitched shrieking of the fire alarm cut through my thoughts. Shit. I rushed to the kitchen to see smoke billowing around the seal of the oven door, and I panicked. There was a fire, I was locked in this damn place, and I had no idea what to do. I debated throwing water at the door when the shrieking cut off. Giovanni’s sudden presence startled me in the deafening silence. He brushed past me and turned off the oven before opening a sliding door that led to a balcony. Right. Probably should have turned off the oven, at least.
Smoke billowed out into the night air before he turned around, thick arms folded over his chest as a frown marred his face. At least he had on a shirt now, though the material was plastered to his biceps in a really distracting way. “Your tantrum need not extend to burning down my apartment.”
“If only I could. Preferably with you in it.”
There was that twitch of his lip again. He opened the oven and wafted away the huge cloud of smoke that came out, then stared at the charred remains of my sandwich. Low flames still flickered pitifully in the grill pan, and a tiny sound huffed past his lips that could almost be taken for a laugh. “How did you burn a sandwich?”
“I don’t know how to cook.” My stomach let out another growl, and I silenced it with a heavy swig of wine.
At this rate, I was going to be drunk and hungry.
“That’s not cooking.”
“It required an oven.”
He cocked a brow. “Your kitchen rights are revoked.”
“Oh, look at that. Right along with my human rights.” I offered him a saccharine smile and opened the fridge, taking the bottle of wine on pure principle. Then I headed toward my room/jail cell. I made it three steps before a large hand clamped around the back of my neck, and I froze like prey in the jaws of a lion. I was yanked back until every inch of his hard body pressed against me. My brain stuttered to a halt, the panicked beat of my pulse hammering in my ears.
I tried to remain calm, to think, but he loomed over me, around me, ensnaring me. Warm breath trickled over my neck, and it felt like a dangerous precursor to those sharp teeth tearing me apart. His woodsy, minty scent mixed with the smoke in the air as his thumb swept just below my ear in a strangely soothing gesture. The warmth of his body bled into me like a furnace on a cold night, and I shivered in his hold, fear slowly giving way to a tentative kind of curiosity.
It unfurled within me like some dormant beast I’d never been aware of before now. An indignant little voice screamed that there was no room for curiosity here, no matter how much electricity skittered over my skin at that soft sweep of his thumb. He suddenly felt like something dangerous yet alluringly safe. A weapon that could be used for or against me. A weapon that I was leaning into as though I were already drunk.
He forced my head to the right, exposing the side of my neck like he might very well tear out my jugular. Instead, his lips brushed my racing pulse in a featherlight caress, and that was worse. So much worse, because instead of him being the enemy, my own body became my adversary. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond the soft scratch of his stubble on my over-sensitized skin.