Page 30 of The Beast Who Broke Me
“Clothes.” I bring them out to the bed, where I pull off my towel and throw it aside. His eyes go wide. I ignore him and start dressing, taking my time about it. “I gotta go to work,” I tell him. “See if you can refrain from getting my staff killed while I’m gone, will you?”
His eyes snap up from my crotch back to my face. “You can’t go out. We have things to discuss.”
“Talk, talk, talk. That’s all you ever want to do.” I pull on a shirt, button it without hurrying. “I have actual work to do. If I want to keep the Boss off my back, I need to keep doing the job.”
“It’s precisely your Boss that we need to talk about.”
The truth is, I don’t actually have anything pressing today. But I want to see how far the Clemenza is willing to go in ordering me around.
“You want to talk so bad, get dressed and come to the sunroom. We can gossip over breakfast.”
“Don’t you understand how much danger you’re in?” he asks coldly.
“Yeah, yeah. If it’s not the Bratva, it’s the Feds. If it’s not them, it’s the Morellis. And now I’ve got a fucking Clemenza on my back, too. That’s just life, far as I’m concerned.”
“When I said that nothing had changed last night, Dami, Imeantit,” he goes on. “We still need to figure out who’s trying to kill me—and we need to find a way to keep Daniel King and the Bratva under control, as long as possible.”
“You might as well try to hold back the Hudson,” I snort. “And anyway, like I told you, Big Gee’s taking care of that.”
I’ve provoked him, because he throws off the covers and slides out of bed. His dick is dying down, but I’m willing to bet he was playing with it just before I came into the room. Something about that image—the Clemenza heir in my bed, stroking himself—sends a throb of vicious heat through me.
I hate him down to his bones, but it’s like the hate gets all twisted up inside me and comes out as lust instead. As much as I hate him, I want to fuck him.
It’s like…if I can’t slide a knife into him, my dick is the next best thing.
He grabs my robe, the one he keeps wearing. “Let’s have breakfast,” he says. “And we can talk things over.”
I tell Rosa to send up the food in the dumbwaiter so we won’t be interrupted, and I crash the Clemenza’s down in front of him when it arrives. “There,” I tell him.
“There’s no silverware,” he says calmly. He’s taken my seat again at the head of the table, so he’s already pissing me off.
I grab a knife and a fork from the credenza and slam them down. “Anything else?”
“You can pour out the coffee. Black, no sugar.”
I’m about ready to stab the fork through his hand, but I do what he wants and then I sit down next to him, instead of at the other end of the table.
He blinks at me.
“Figured I’d stay nice and close,” I tell him, “in case you need anything else.”
The truth is, I want him on edge. I want him thinking that any second I might grab him, throw him over the nearest surface, and fuck him.
Or put a butter knife through his eyeball.
He starts eating, using both knife and fork like some aristocrat. I stab into my eggs with a fork and wait for him to start.
“So,” he begins. “We need to discuss the investigation.”
“What investigation?”
“Who’s after me, Dami.” He sets his fork down. “Your Underboss tasked you with finding out.”
“Yeah. I’ve been a little busy.”
“Busy doingwhat? What was so vital that ignoring your orders?—”
“I was looking foryou,” I hiss at him. “So I could pull your spine out through your fucking mouth.”
